


The Queen of Cups

by adventuresinastrangeworld



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen POV, Gen, Inquisitor POV, Leliana POV, Multi, Other, Solas POV, Varric POV, alienage inquisitor, elf blooded inquisitor, inquisition novelization, josephine pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2018-12-20 18:55:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 72,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11927136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventuresinastrangeworld/pseuds/adventuresinastrangeworld
Summary: Ayla Adalen is an elf-blooded woman from the Denerim Alienage who through a series of tragedies finds herself the Herald of Andraste, much to Solas's dismay.A novelization of what Dragon Age Inquisition might be like with an alienage elf background. Story is told through shifting POV characters including Ayla (oc), Sammen (oc), Solas, Varric, and the advisers with an emphasis on the interpersonal relationships and how the events of Inquisition reshape the political landscape of Thedas.





	1. We All Come from Somewhere

The evening sounds of the Denerim alienage accompanied Ayla Adalen on her walk home. Her mostly empty basket of lavender sachets swung beside her, occasionally bouncing off a knee. She had already begun fantasizing about what her mother had made for dinner. Probably soup. It was usually soup. But there wasn’t any other soup quite like it in Denerim. Her mother had been raised Dalish and had their sensibilities about spicing food. Meaning that unlike most Fereldan soups, it was actually good. Ayla’s stomach rumbled as she approached the Adalen family home, the smell of dinner wafting through the open window.

“Mamae! I’m home!” Ayla announced as she closed the door behind her and set her basket down.

“Aneth ara, lethallan” Rosha rose from the hearth, “How was it today?”

“Not bad, I’ll have to go out in the fields again tomorrow. Most of what is left has been crushed. It won’t sell.” Ayla untied her apron, hanging it on a peg by the door, “It smells good, what’s for dinner?”

Ayla crossed the small hovel and gave her mother kiss on the temple.

“Potato stew with mutton.” Rosha made a face, “Well...more like a dream of mutton. Any less meat and I might as well baa at the pot for all the good it does.”

“My favorite.” Ayla took two wooden bowls and spoons from off the mantle and set the table. She picked up the earthen water jug and gave it a shake, empty. “I’ll go get more water from the well while you finish up.”

“Aye.” Rosha acknowledged, returning to tending the stew, “Be quick, da’lan, it’s almost ready.”

Ayla fetched the buckets and yoke and made her way to the alienage well. The evening crowd was already gathered and she joined them to wait her turn for water.

“Spoon!” A young elf approached her, waving and carrying his own bucket.

“Sammen!” Ayla replied, “How was work at the docks?”

“Not the worst day, no major injuries and I only got called knife-ear a couple dozen times.” Sammen replied, setting his bucket down next to her.

“Are they actually going to pay you this time?”

“After last time I got half up front, at least. So there’s that.” Sammen frowned, “But this foreman seems at least halfway honest. And he has family here. So he’s not going to disappear over the horizon without paying the dockhands.”

“So you _can_ learn.” Ayla teased.

“Keep talking like that and Haren Shianni will never be able to make you a match.”

“What? I have a _darling_ personality.” She took mock offence, “I thought it was because I look like a shem.”

“True. You’d almost be pretty if you hadn’t inherited your da’s ears.” Sammen slung his arm around Ayla’s neck and mussed her hair.

“Ah! No! Stop!” Ayla laughed as she wiggled out of Sammen’s hold, “And _you’d_ almost be handsome if you could just do something about your _face._ ”

“Shall I paint it like a Dalish elf?” Sammen wriggled his fingers under his eyes, imitating Rosha’s vallaslin.

“What, Mythal’s like mamae’s?” Ayla shook her head while smiling, “Patron of motherhood and justice?”

“Eugh...maybe not that one. Not a justice kinda guy. Too much work.” Sammen stuck his tongue out, “What’s the one that had all the fun?”

“Fun?”

“You know. Ran around tricking everyone at parties, giving people what they asked for but not what they expected. The fun one. Thenril or something.”

“Fen’Harel? The Dread Wolf?”

“Yeah! That’s the one. I bet his face thingy looks _awesome._ ”

“I don’t think he has a vallaslin. Not that mamae has told me. Besides, he hates elves.”

“Pfff. He’s clearly met them. No offence to your mum, she’s nice, but the Dalish I ran into when I ran that message over to Lothering called me ‘flat ear’ and shot arrows at my feet. Said I was trespassing in their woods.”

“Sure. We’ll just discount how they helped fight off the darkspawn then.”

“Well, obviously I don’t mean _them_ either.” Sammen crossed his arms, “Just the ones who shoot at poor innocent messengers like myself.”

“A fair point.” Ayla stepped forward towards the well to fill her buckets, “But you’ve met enough Dalish to know they’re not all like that.”

“Yeah, yeah. First impressions die hard.” Sammen took Ayla’s buckets and filled them for her, “Particularly when they’re the murder-y sort of impressions.”

“Hey, thanks.” Ayla dipped lower so Sammen could hook the buckets onto her yoke, “See you later tonight, tell you da I said ‘hi’.”

“Yeah, same to your ma!” Sammen waved as Ayla walked away, “Come by and visit sometime. He says you make tea better than me anyways.”

“That’s because I don’t let it steep so long the spoon can stand up in it.” Alya laughed as she walked away.

“That’s how you know it’s done!” Sammen called back.

Ayla opened the front door with her foot to find that she and her mother apparently had company for dinner. Rosha’s face was buried in the shoulder of an elf woman she was hugging so tightly Ayla wondered how they were managing to breath. The stranger wore a the blue and purple robes of a mage. King Alistair had granted the Fereldan circle greater autonomy, but it was still strange seeing a mage outside the tower. There was friction between the royal decree and the official stance of the Chantry. Some felt King Alistair was in his rights as king to grant more freedom to the Ferelden mages, while others said that mages and the Circles were part of the Chantry and he had no authority over them. It was a subject best avoided at dinner parties if one hoped to have a pleasant evening.

“I’ve got the water, who’s our guest?” Ayla asked, setting the buckets down and carefully filling the jug on the table from one.

“Ayla, don’t you recognize her?” Rosha looked up teary eyed, releasing her hugging victim. Ayla was able to get a good look, there was something familiar about the woman’s face… Suddenly it clicked and Ayla realized the last time she’d seen the woman was as a girl sixteen years ago.

“Myathilen! Sister!” She shouted as she launched herself at the woman, hugging her tight.

“I go by Mary now.” the mage laughed, hugging her sister back, “No one at the circle could pronounce Myathilen.”

“Mary then, if that’s what you prefer.” Ayla corrected herself.

“It is.” Mary affirmed with a smile.

“I don’t see what’s so hard about ‘Myathilen’.” Rosha pursed her lips, “But I’m glad to have you home, regardless.”

“But what _are_ you doing here? Are there...you know…” Ayla’s eyes darted around the room nervously and her voice dropped to a low whisper, “...templars?”

“No.” Mary’s voice also fell to a whisper, “They said the Circle of Enchanters voted to disband after what happened in Val Royeaux, and the Ferelden circle rebelled. Most of the mages left for Andoral’s Reach after the battle with the templars, but I just wanted to come home. I don’t think news of the rebellion has reached Denerim yet.”

“I haven’t heard anything about it at the Gnawed Noble.” Ayla shrugged, “Nothing solid anyways. Of course there are rumors.”

“There are _always_ rumors.” Rosha shook her head, “But come, eat. Mage politics _will not_ rob me of having _both_ my daughters home.”

“For another hour at least, I have to get changed and over to the Gnawed Noble.” Ayla said as she laid out another place setting and served the stew.

“Can’t you take tonight off? It’s not everyday your sister comes home.” Rosha sighed.

“Not if we want to keep calling this shack home I can’t.” Ayla was already shoveling stew in her mouth.

“Lethallan, _please._ ” Rosha said in that voice all mothers have when their children forget basic manners.

Ayla finished chewing carefully and swallowed before speaking again, “Sorry, Mamae.”

“It’s been sixteen years, but _you_ haven’t changed a bit.” Mary laughed as she joined them at the table.

“I’m slightly taller.” Ayla defended.

“ _Slightly._ ” Mary emphasized, “It’s nice not being the shortest person in the room, for once.”

Ayla stuck her tongue out before cramming more stew in her mouth.

“ _Girls._ ” Rosha chided, but she was smiling. It was like she had never lost one of her daughters to the circle.

“What do you do at the Gnawed Noble?” Mary asked as she delicately ate her stew.

“I perform. Archery tricks mostly, but sometimes I juggle.” Ayla said between bites, “I’m better with the bow than the pins though.”

“I thought you sold flowers?” Mary’s brow knit as she searched her memory, “At least that was the impression I got from your letters.”

“I do that too, but after da…” Ayla choked on her words, letting the rest of the sentence hang, “Mamae and I needed money so one of da’s old contacts got me a job performing at The Pearl. Not like...you know. But stupid parlor tricks to keep the customers entertained while they waited for the whores.”

“Weren’t you twelve when Graham-” Mary was interrupted by a look Ayla shot her followed by Ayla’s eyes pointedly looking over at their mother. Rosha was visibly upset by the mention of her husband’s name.

“Yeah, that’s why it was shooting arrows and not...you know.” Ayla concluded, spooning the last of her dinner into her mouth and rising from the table, “You could come with me tonight, if you like.”

“That sounds fun, but maybe I should stay with mother?” Mary looked at their mother.

“You should go, I can finish the washing and get Arl Eamon’s table linens back to Nigella early.” Rosha answered as she began clearing away dinner.

“I have something you can wear.” Ayla’s voice was muffled by her dress, she was already stripping out of her day clothes, “Not as fancy as what you’ve got on, but at least it won’t scream ‘Hey, I’m a mage!’ at the top of it’s lungs.”

“Alright, I’m convinced.” Mary decided.

“Great! Here.” Ayla thrust the dress she had just been wearing into Mary’s hands.

“You can’t be serious.”

“As a blight.” Ayla opened a trunk and pulled out the chestpiece of Rosha’s old Dalish armor and a pair of trousers, “I have one other dress, but it’s for helping mamae with on bleaching days and it’s mostly holes at this point.”

“Mother?” Mary turned to Rosha for help.

“My other dress has more holes than Ayla’s. Just wear your sister’s. We’ll see about finding you something of your own tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Mary sighed, pulling her robes over her head.

The top of the hour found the sisters inside the Gnawed Noble. It was a sizable crowd for a weeknight. Ayla scanned the room, reading the people. No one stood out as a danger, at least, not to them. There were the usual nobles and merchants sitting where they could see and be seen. Some of the less reputable patrons hovered in the darker corners.

The Gnawed Noble’s proprietor, Edwina, encouraged this. Said it gave the place ‘flavor.’ As long as they weren’t injured, some of the nobles seemed to actually _enjoy_ being able to tell their friends about the time they got piss drunk and robbed. This only served to feed Ayla’s opinion that nobles were weird.

“Do you want anything? I have to check in with the bartender and then get set up.” Ayla asked Mary.

“Oh...um… an ale might be nice.” Mary was scanning the tavern herself, but clearly coming to a different conclusion.

“Don’t worry. The nobles want something exciting to write home about and the disreputable types stick to the purses that won’t miss it.” Ayla assured her, “It’s sort of the unspoken rule here. Break it and you’re not welcome anymore. Edwina makes sure of it. Fighting is okay, pickpocketing is okay, but scaring off the customers or the entertainment isn’t.”

“I see…” Mary did not look convinced.

“Relax, you keep looking that tense and someone’s going to think you’re a mark.” Ayla squeezed her sister’s shoulders and guided her to a booth, “Here. Wait here and I’ll get you that ale.”

She felt a little guilty about leaving Mary sitting alone. Her sister was clearly not used to the atmosphere and she sat stiffly in what she probably thought was a relaxed position. Ayla’s lip twitched. Her mother would kill her if she let anything happen to Mary on her first night back.

“Who’s the lady?” the bartender asked as Ayla approached.

“That’s my sister, and she’d like an ale.” Ayla leaned on the counter.

“Why’s she got knife-ears when yours are normal?”

“Mary’s got _elf_ ears because we don’t have the same da.” Ayla gently corrected, “You getting that ale or not?”

“Sure, kid.” The bartender fished out a clean jack and filled it, “Edwina says you can set up in the usual spot by the fire. I’ll let ‘em know the twitchy one is kin. Sammen can be here anytime with his drum.”

“Thanks.” Ayla traded three coppers for the jack and returned to Mary, who was looking about as comfortable as a Chantry mother in a brothel.

“Here, the ale’s actually pretty decent at the Noble.” Ayla pressed the jack into Mary’s hands, “As long as you stay on the bartender’s good side.”

“Thanks.” Mary nervously gulped down most of the drink, “Wait, aren’t you thirsty?”

“I’ll have some after, I have to be able to shoot straight enough not to perforate anyone.” Ayla smiled, “At least not anyone important.”

“Ah.” Mary picked at the stitching on the jack, “Um...about before. When I used your father’s name.”

“Mamae still doesn’t like talking about it.” Ayla pressed her lips together in a thin line, “I don’t much like discussing it either.”

“Oh, sorry.” Mary stared at the table.

“Don’t be. You couldn’t know. Not really.” Ayla laid her hand on her sister’s, “I know mamae didn’t write about it and I...I couldn’t fit it into words.”

“I had heard about the slavers in the alienage during the blight. Some of the older mages talked about it when they got back. But they said they only were taking elves and Graham was elf-blooded. He looked human enough.”

“Yeah, but da was pretty, _is_ pretty.” Ayla corrected herself, “And experienced in the way that makes pretty slaves expensive. They ransacked the orphanage during the alienage purge to get rid of all the noble bastards like him. No one was going to be up in arms about one of them getting sold off to Tevinter.”

“I’m sorry.” Mary looked horrified, “I didn’t think about how things were back home. I mean, not how they _really_ were. Just those happy golden childhood memories of what home was like…”

They sat for a moment. Ayla traced graffiti carved into the table with her finger. A clever but not at all reverent epithet about King Cailan. Mary fiddled with the stitching on her jack.

“Do you think Graham is still alive?” Mary broke the awkward silence.

“We hope.” Ayla shrugged with a sad smile, “King Alistair and Queen Cousland have managed to secure the return of some of the elves that got sold off when Teyrn Loghain took power. Most of the alienage hopes that someday it’ll be someone they lost. Because between the purge, the plague, the slavers, and the battle of Denerim, there isn’t anyone who hasn’t lost _someone._ ”

“I-I shouldn’t have brought it up. And right before you have to perform. Sorry.”

“No, it’s probably better that you asked here instead of where mamae might have heard. And you have a right to know.” Ayla paused to wave at Sammen who finally came bustling in, “I’ve got to start, here’s a few more coppers if you want another when you finish that one. We can talk more when I’m done.”

“Hey, who’s that with you?” Sammen asked, taking the felted cover off his drum and giving the skin a soft thump with his knuckle.

“Remember Myathilen? Except she goes by Mary now.”

“Your _sister_?” Sammen’s eyes went wide and snapped to where Mary was finishing her jack, “Isn’t she supposed to be in the tower?”

“Shhh!” Ayla looked around to see if anyone had heard him, “She said the Circles dissolved. The news doesn’t seem to have come this far yet, but if Mary is here it can’t be far behind.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

“For now? Get set up and hopefully make enough tonight to feed the extra mouth.”

“Practical.”

“Someone has to be. Join us for a drink after?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Sammen winked at Mary. She responded with a confused look. Ayla laughed.

“Go easy on her. She’s been in that tower for sixteen years.”

“So you’re saying I have a chance.” Sammen grinned.

“Ass.”

Ayla and Sammen set up a target by the fire, casually making conversation with the tavern patrons they were dislodging. With everything ready, Sammen began playing his drum.

The beat was slow and heavy at first, gathering the attention of the patrons, then moved into an occasional trill as Ayla began her routine. Her first shot was straight with the only mildly impressive thing being that the arrow thudded into the target in time with the beat. The next shot was standing on one leg, then spinning, then twisting, until Ayla was dancing and striking the bullseye still in time with the drum. Her body contorted into shapes that seemed impossible, flexibility hard earned from years of training, and still the arrows struck the target. Each shot more impossible than the last until they had the undivided attention of the Noble’s patrons. Sammen’s drumming ended when the quiver at Ayla’s side was empty. The tavern broke into applause as she began pulling her arrows from the target.

“Challenge the archer! A copper a shot.” Sammen announced, “If she can’t make it, we’ll pay you two!”

The patrons began calling out shots, waving coppers in the air. Sammen walked around collecting coins, announcing the challenge loud enough for the whole tavern to hear. Ayla shot through rings, around mugs, blindfolded, upside-down, using only one hand. At one point she shot the flame off a candle, to much cheering. Sammen didn’t once have to pay out on a challenge, even the ones that got rather sadistic.

“Thank you!” Sammen announced when the purse was fat with coin, “We have one last trick for you tonight, we’re going to need those of you standing from here to the bar to clear some space. Thank you for coming out, and _thank you_ for your coin!”

The audience laughed and clapped as Sammen retrieved his drum. Ayla took her position in front of the target and waited for the path back to the bar to clear. The barkeep placed a jack of ale on the counter and gave her a nod. She nodded to him and then to Sammen. He began playing his drum. There was no easing into the beat this time, it began fast paced and moved into frantic. Ayla matched it with flips and leaps, punctuated with arrows slamming into the target. Sweat poured from her brow but she was grinning from ear to ear. It wasn’t until there was one arrow left that there was any relief from the driving beat of the drum. Sammen played a trill as Ayla found her position directly in front of the target again, and then he fell silent.

It was Ayla’s turn to pick up the beat. There were three quick successive thuds from her footfalls as she took a running start and then a musical series of thumps created by a combination of backflips and cartwheels from target to the bar. The gymnastic rhythm had a brief rest as Ayla sprung, somersaulting into the air and landed with a final bang on the counter, her last arrow thudding into the target at the same time. Alya took her bow to the sound of applause. She bent down to pick up the jack and continued to roll her body like a poem until her feet alighted once more on the floor, not a single drop spilled. This caused a second surge of applause and whistles from the crowd.

The performance over, a few of tavern patrons pushed forward to speak with Ayla and Sammen, buying them drinks or asking if they were available for hire. Ayla was all smiles as she chatted away, answering questions and deflecting come ons. Slowly the crowds returned to their drinks and she was able to order three more jacks of ale from the barkeep and made her way back to Mary. Sammen was already stowing their things at the table and asking those polite getting-reacquainted-with-you questions.

“Favorite color?”

“Blue, yours?” Mary seemed to have finally relaxed, although the empty jack in front of her probably had something to do with that.

“Same. Did they let you have pets?”

“No, did you have pets?”

“There was a rat I tried to tame once, but he bit my face.”

“I remember that!” Ayla slid in next to Mary, distributing their drinks, “Blood _everywhere_. And we thought it was going to get infected and we’d have to cut off your nose.”

“Didn’t you see a healer? Rat bites can be dangerous.” Mary asked.

“With what coin?” Sammen laughed, “Da told me to rub mud in it and it came out fine. Eventually.”

“ _Mud?!_ ” Mary’s eyes were wide.

“Well it worked, didn’t it?” Sammen was grinning, “Or do you not like my nose?”

“No...it’s a fine nose. I just-” Mary stammered.

“Oh! The lady thinks I have a fine nose!” Sammen crowed, “Did you hear, Spoon? A fine nose!”

“I heard, we should tell the Chantry. It’s a miracle.” Ayla smirked into her cup as she drank.

“I didn’t mean - you _do_ have a fine nose - but that’s not-” Mary’s face progressed from rosy pink to the darker shades of scarlet as she tried to undig her hole.

“Sammen’s just teasing.” Ayla snorted, throwing her arm around her sister’s shoulders.

“I was catching on to that.” Mary hid her face with her jack and sipped her ale.

“Not used to the attention?” Sammen waggled his eyebrows at Mary over the top of his drink.

“No, we had...fraternization at the tower.” Mary defended herself.

“Fancy word, that. _Fraternization._ ” Sammen tried it on for size, “Frat-er-niz-ation.”

“I’d say not everyone is as bad as Sammen, but we don’t get new faces in the alienage very often. At least not without them already being promised to someone.” Ayla shook her head.

“Yes, the arranged marriages. I remember.” Mary sighed, “I wasn’t _that_ young when the templars took me to the tower. Are you two promised to anyone?”

“Not yet. Don’t have the coin for it. Da hasn’t been able to work in years so it’s just been me keeping our heads above water.” Sammen shook his head.

“And the elf-blooded daughter of a Dalish hunter and a whore is generally considered ‘scrapping the bottom of the barrel’ for most.” Ayla scrunched up her nose, “The archery doesn’t help. Things are better under King Alistair, but most families still want to avoid ‘troublemakers’. Not every noble in Ferelden has gotten the message that elves are people yet.”

“Did you hear about Edgehall?” Sammen leaned across the table, “Arl Gell burned down their Vhenadahl.”

“I heard that he tried to stop the elves from planting a new one, they were going to revolt.” Ayla placed her elbows on the table and rested her weight on them.

“What happened?” Mary whispered, leaning in.

“King Alistair sent a knight to ease tensions and let Arl Gell know in no uncertain terms that the Vhenadahl were protected by the crown.” Ayla answered.

“He’s one of the good ones.” Sammen raised his jack.

“To the good ones.” Ayla raised hers in agreement.

“Aye.” Mary raised her jack and all three took a solemn pull of ale.

“I met him, and the queen. When they came to the tower.” Mary added.

“Really?” Ayla said a little louder than she had meant, “They came to the alienage too, and got rid of the Tevinter slavers, but mamae wouldn’t let me leave the house at that point.”

“Really. They worked with Wynne, one of the senior enchanters, to deal with the abominations that took over the tower after another senior enchanter, Uldred, tried start a rebellion.” Mary nodded, clearly feeling the full effects of the ale now, “They saved our lives. _And_ a bunch of us were giggling over how handsome Alistair was for _weeks._ He came back a few times to speak with the first enchanter and we were always finding excuses to be in his way.”

Ayla laughed so hard she snorted ale out of her nose, which set Sammen off. Their laughter fed each other until the whole table was having a giggle fit.

“Well he wasn’t _king_ then, was he?” Mary said still grinning, “Just a handsome Grey Warden in shining armor that sorted the tower out.”

“I saw him once in a parade. He’s not a bad looking fellow by any stretch of the imagination.” Sammen conceded with a smile, “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed in the morning.”

“And in what world are you having a one night with the king?” Ayla was still wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.

“The best one.” Sammen answered, chuckling.

“I like your optimism.” Mary fiddled with the hair on the back of her neck.

“If I’m going to rot away in the alienage, at the very least I can dream about the stars.” Sammen winked, finishing his drink, “How’s your ale, Ayla?”

“Empty, but I’ve got to make a run to the fields tomorrow before the market gets busy.” She stood, gathering her things.

“Are we leaving already?” Mary stirred, sounding disappointed.

“Yeah, already?” Sammen echoed.

“You don’t have to come with me.” Ayla said, “I’m sure Sammen will see you safely back to the alienage.”

“Sure, no problem.” Sammen smiled...but then added nervously, “I mean, if Mary wants to stay.”

“You don’t think mother will be upset?” Mary fretted, “Only it’s been so long since I’ve just been able to...relax.”

“I’ll tell her you’re with Sammen. It’ll be fine.” Ayla smiled at them gently, “Just make sure he doesn’t stay too late either, he has to be at the docks in the morning.”

Ayla dropped the empty jacks off at the counter and left the Gnawed Noble. The night streets of Denerim were quiet, and fairly peaceful if you knew how to mind your own business. Of course the bow slung over her shoulder didn’t hurt Ayla’s uneventful walk back to the alienage. Rosha had left a candle glowing in the window of their home. As quietly as she could, Ayla opened the door to the hovel.

“Aneth ara, lethallan” Rosha greeted, seated at the table working on the mending, “Where is Myathilen?”

“She stayed later with Sammen.” Ayla answered, “He promised to walk her home. Did you finish the table linens?”

“Aye. I’ve moved on to widow Baern’s mending. I stopped in to visit her today and she was up to her ear-points dealing with the twins so I just took it. Those poor boys have been running around in knee-less pants for too long.”

Ayla picked up a pair of the aforementioned pants and held them up to the candle light. They were filthy, but it seemed like the mud might have been all that was holding them together.

“Pass a needle?” Ayla asked as she sat down, gently brushing dirt away from the hole so she could add a patch. Rosha pushed the pincushion across the table to her.

“How was tonight?” Rosha asked.

“It went well, Sammen and I managed to pull a fat purse. Arl Bryland is apparently hosting a feast next month so their seneschal asked if we could perform.” Ayla took a measure of thread and licked the end, stringing a needle.

“That would be well. We’ll need the extra coin now that Myathilen is home. It might be awhile before she can find work.”

“If the Circles are really disbanded then maybe she could earn with her magic?”

“There’s a difference between mages being free and mages being accepted.” Rosha frowned, “We know that better than anyone.”

“You’re right, mamae.” Ayla sighed, “It’s probably better Mary keeps her magic under wraps until we find out which way the wind is going to blow.”

“‘Mary’ banal las halamshir var vhen.” Rosha’s frown deepened.

“Mamae!” Ayla cried in surprise, “Don’t be rude. Next you’ll be calling her ‘flat ear’. It’s not her fault she was raised in the tower. Besides, she still thinks of this as home. She is still my sister and your daughter no matter what she’s called.”

“I’m glad she came home. I just not glad she changed her name. To a shem’lin name of all things.”

“At least she doesn’t look like a shem.” Ayla gave a small smile.

“Ir abalas.” Rosha put down her mending and looked across the table at her daughter, “That was thoughtless of me, lethallan. I love my daughters. For all I complain I love living in the alienage. If I hadn’t left my clan I would have never met Graham or had you, and I treasure the few extra years living here gave me with Myathilen. But it is bittersweet to have my daughter returned to me a stranger after all these years. ‘Myathilen’ was my mother’s name and I feel I have lost my clan all over again.”

“You should tell her that.” Ayla reached across the table to hold her mother’s hands.

“You are right, Ayla.” Rosha smiled and squeezed her hands before returning to the mending, “Did Mya-Mary have fun tonight?”

“I think so. She was nervous at first, her letters always made things sound very posh in the circle. But Sammen puts everyone at ease if they give him half a chance.” The corner of Ayla’s mouth twitched with a satisfied smile when she recalled the eyes her sister and best friend had been making at each other.

“He is a good boy.” Rosha nodded.

“Most of the time.” Ayla agreed.

They finished their sewing and went to bed. There was only one in the hovel and they curled against each other, mother and daughter, as they had for years. When Mary stumbled in sometime later, Ayla helped her to bed. Rosha and Mary tossed around for a few moments, trying to find how they fit together in the narrow cot before settling in to sleep. Ayla suspected that if their mother had been less tired and Mary less drunk, it would have taken longer for them to find comfortable sleeping positions. She yawned and lay out on the floor under a cloak-turned-makeshift-blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few speculative liberties were taken, such as the tension between the Ferelden Crown and the Chantry as to who actually has control over the Circles. Thinking about this also has me wondering exactly what the Chantry meant to do with all those mages? Because other than ‘studying magic until I die’ the only other option for a mage is ‘run away and become a grey warden and/or apostate’.
> 
> I also considered what the actual reasoning would be for Arl Howe killing off an entire orphanage beyond needing the square in ‘bad guy cliche bingo’. I figured given that we know from the alienage warden origin, nobles used a somehow even grosser version of “Lord’s Right of the First Night” with elves. There would be a lot of unwanted bastards in the alienage who would have noble blood. Howe wouldn’t leave them running about all willy-nilly in case one of them got it in their heads to make a legitimate claim on his seat of power. Graham is also the product of such a union because it’s all well and good to have terrible ideas, but the actual repercussions of some of the plot points in Dragon Age would have greater world consequences than get explored in game. I wanted to explore those consequences a little.
> 
> I selected character names based on their personal stories:  
> Ayla - means oak, the codex mentions that most venadahl are oak trees. Ayla may look human, but her community and by extension - sense of self - comes from the alienage. Her name was a point of a lot of debate between Rosha and Graham. Rosha wanting to give her a more traditional dalish name and Graham being painfully aware that being the elf-blooded child of a dalish elf was going to make his daughter’s life hard enough. The name Ayla was their compromise, she is actually named after the Denerim venadahl.
> 
> Myathilen - from the Project Elvhen Book of Names means Many honored sacrifices. Rosha put Myathilen ahead of her clan, having been from one of the clans that kick mages out. I couldn’t see a caring mother leaving her six year old daughter to fend for herself. Rosha left the clan to be with Myathilen.
> 
> Mary - often cited as bitter, or sea of bitterness, but the true meaning has been lost to time. The ‘but’ part is the reason that I chose Mary. In many cases, dominate cultures force other cultures to assimilate by encouraging or enforcing a name change. Such as in Japan occupied Korea. I thought that Myathilen was much to ‘elfy’ a name (as Sera might put it) to survive in a Chantry controlled tower. Mary did chose the name herself because she wanted to fit in better, although it was probably gently encouraged by the Chantry mothers. By rights Mary should be some Keeper’s First, but instead circumstances made her a circle mage. A meaning lost to time.
> 
> Rosha - also from the Project Elvhen Book of Names means enduring happiness. Rosha could have become a very bitter woman, leaving her clan, living in the alienage, losing her daughter that she left her clan for, and then her husband. She is not, and her optimism has shaped Ayla.
> 
> Graham - means gravelly place. Graham is Ayla’s father and Rosha’s husband. An elf-blooded bastard born in the Denerim alienage - a pretty gravelly place. He was raised in the orphanage and I did a lot of research in to how orphans were named. I decided he would have a fairly common name and selected from a list of common Gaelic names since that seems to be where most Fereldan names come from.
> 
> Sammen - a riff off of Samwise, the character I named him after. Sammen enjoys being in the thick of it with friends and is defined by his loyalty.
> 
> Thank you for reading! There are a few ways that I chose to relate information that I am not certain are clear, so critiques and suggestions are welcome. Questions are also encouraged. A tutorial on how to write interesting summaries is greatly needed.


	2. “Where there’s tea there’s hope.”  -- Sir Arthur Pinero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of the Ferelden Circle’s rebellion has finally reached Denerim and the Adalen family makes a choice for the good of the alienage. The writer’s pickiness about tea preparation is also reveled.

A week passed. Mary was slowly fitting back into life in the alienage. Ayla enjoyed having a sister again. She was sure that eventually the newness would wear off and they’d have to work through the knotty bits of being family. But that was it though, family. It had always been worth the work.

Ayla thought about how Mary wove the lavender stems with ribbon to make the sachets as she stood on the corner selling them. Mary’s fingers had been clumsy and the first few had been unusable, but Mary had a single-mindedness that drove her to practice weaving until the sachets she produced had been sell-able. Ayla was still much faster, but Mary would catch up in time. They had that now, time.

Their mother had been teaching Mary simple stitches too. In fact, both were at home right now making a go at the clothes from the orphanage. Rosha had volunteered to patch what they could, Mary needed practice and the kids could use shirts with a few less holes. Mary and mamae still didn’t quite fit together. They were both trying, and as long as they did, time would change that too. The future seemed full of things to look forward to.

Her head was swirling with hope all day, and it must have brought her luck. Everyone seemed to want to buy a sachet from the dreamy-eyed flower girl. Ayla’s evening trek back to the alienage was with an empty basket and a full purse.

She was in a good mood when she opened the door to the hovel to find Hahren Shianni sitting with Mary and Rosha at their table.

“Lethallan.” Rosha stood. Ayla could tell from the look on her face that whatever Shianni was there for, it wasn’t good news.

“Ayla,” Shianni turned towards the door, “How have you been? I spoke with Sammen earlier today. He said the street performance racket was going well.”

“I have been well, thank you hahren.” Ayla set down her basket and joined the group at the table, “What brings you here?”

“News of the rebellion reached the palace.” Mary answered, her face pale.

“King Alistair supports the mages.” Shianni said in a voice that indicated it wasn’t the first time she was laying out assurances, “And you will be safe here, but the templars have  _also_  rebelled from the Chantry and are hunting down mages. Unsanctioned.”

“So what does that mean for Mary?” Ayla asked, reaching under the table to take her sister’s hands.

“It means we’ll  _all_  watch out for her.” Shianni stated like an immutable fact. Rosha and Ayla exchanged glances. The alienage was a tight knit community that looked out for each other, but they both knew there was always someone looking to make a coin, despite Shianni’s sometimes militant optimism.

“And the crown is okay with this?” Ayla was nervous, “It’s one thing to support the mages, it’s another to go against the templars. In Denerim. In the alienage.”

“I’ll make them support it.” Shianni responded, “King Alistair has been  _mostly_  reasonable and Queen Cousland can hammer any dissenting nobles into shape.”

“I could just go.” Mary’s voice was small and quiet, “That would be less trouble for everyone.

“We should seek one of the clans.” Rosha said, “Not all of them expel extra mages. I would have done it 28 years ago had I known then. I’m sure we could find one to take us.”

“What about Ayla?” Mary asked.

“I’ll go too.” Ayla smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way, “We’re family.”

“You don’t have to go.” Shianni tried to reiterate, “We can protect you here.”

“If we go to the Dalish, it’s only me who’ll be put out. Not the entire alienage.” Ayla countered.

“Everyone has been so good to me and my family since I came here.” Rosha added, “I can’t ask them to fight the templars for us, everyone has already lost so much. It is too much to ask.”

“But you don’t need to ask, Rosha.” Shianni was getting irritated, “That’s what separates us from the shems and flat-ears.”

Anger flashed in Rosha’s eyes and Ayla looked at Mary nervously. She was aware that they both qualified as ‘shems’ and ‘flat-ears’ respectively. Hahren Shianni could be too idealistic to see reality at times, it had been a strength and a fault.

“I appreciate it, Shianni, I really do.” Rosha clipped, “But it is too much. We will seek the Dalish. Thank you for the warning. Are you staying for dinner?”

“Ah…no.” Shianni stood, “Thank you. Soris is probably waiting for me to eat. I should go.”

“It was good to see you, Hahren.” Ayla stood to show Shianni out, “I’m sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t convince you to stay.” Shianni replied, standing in the door, “But I understand how your predicament is more…perilous than most. I should have thought of that before I let my mouth run.”

“It’s alright.” Ayla lowered her voice so only Shianni could hear, “I’m actually glad you separate me and my sister from the shems and flat-ears.”

“I used to help change your diapers.” Shianni gave Ayla a hug, “How could I see you as anything but family?”

“Thank you.” Ayla hugged her back.

“Safe journeys wherever the road takes you.” She smiled, “And remember you’ll have a home here as long as I’m around.”

“And to you.” Ayla stepped back, “The mage rebellion won’t make things easy here.”

“Don’t I know it.” Shianni laughed, “But surviving is what we’re good at. If Orlais, Maric, Cailin, Loghain, the purge, the plague, the slavers, the blight, and the Battle of Denerim couldn’t take us down. The rebellion doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Not against you, hahren.” Ayla smiled, waving as Shianni disappeared down the street. She closed the door and turned to her family.

“Mother, do you even know how to find the Dalish?” Mary asked.

“They’re not as secretive as they were before the blight.” Rosha had already gotten up from the table and was packing, “At least the more friendly clans. I heard that some of them have even been making contact with the alienages. If we head south towards Denerim it shouldn’t be too hard to find them.”

“Would they really accept me?” Mary folded laundry, restarting the same handkerchief several times before it was square.

“It’ll be safer than staying here. The clans are used to dealing with templars.” Rosha answered.

“And Ayla?” Mary asked for the second time. Rosha’s busy hands stilled and she looked over, unsure, at her youngest.

“They’ll accept me or they won’t.” Ayla shrugged and moved to help with the packing, “I could always settle nearby so you can visit. Find a nice farm-boy. Have too many children.”

“Ayla-” Rosha started.

“Mamae.” Ayla said gently, “One problem at a time. First we make sure Mary’s safe. Then we’ll see what comes next.”

“Ma serannas, da’lan.” Rosha sighed, “My mind is running in circles.”

“I’m sorry, this is my fault. I should never have come home.” Mary croaked, she had begun crying.

“Oh no, no lethallan.” Rosha rose and moved to where Mary was sitting and embraced her, “It is not your fault.”

“If I hadn’t been a mage…” Mary sniffed through tears.

“You wouldn’t be you. Your magic is a gift.” Rosha whispered.

“It is a curse from th-the M-Maker.” Mary was bawling now, “I was m-made wr-wrong.”

“No,” Rosha cupped Mary’s cheeks in her hands and gazed with love in her eyes, “You are my daughter. My precious one. You are a gift from The Creators.”

Mary was crying too hard to make any further arguments. Rosha held her daughter and rocked her gently, humming off-key lullabies. Ayla continued packing as quietly as she could, organizing the details of their flight in her mind, giving her sister and mamae as much privacy as could be afforded in the one-room home.

After sometime passed, Mary gave a loud, ugly sniffle and smiled at her mother. Rosha, in turn, smoothed Mary’s hair and kissed the last of her tears off her face.

“Mother!” Mary giggled, struggling to get away from the quasi-mortifying expression of maternal love.

“What?” Rosha gave an all-too-innocent look and redoubling her efforts, “I have a lot of embarrassing mamae moments to catch up on.”

“Oh! Me too!” Ayla wrapped Mary in her arms and started kissing her other cheek, “I’ve got a lot of annoying little sister time to make up for.”

“Ah! No! Stop!” Mary was laughing, “Don’t we have to finish packing? When did you want to leave, mother?”

“We should go as soon as possible. The longer we linger the more of a chance trouble has to catch up with us.” Rosha stood and straightened her dress.

“Do you have any other outstanding laundry, mamae?” Ayla asked, “And I’ll need to let Sammen know so he can cancel on Arl Bryland, or find another dancer. If we’re quick we can get to Alarith’s for supplies and be gone by morning.”

“Can I go with you to see Sammen?” Mary asked, roses in her cheeks.

“Of course.” Ayla said with a sly smirk.

“Don’t worry about the washing, I’ll hand off what I’ve got to widow Baern. She could always use the extra coin.” Rosha nodded, “I’ll go see her when I finish here, you two go see Sammen and get what supplies we need from Alarith’s.”

“Aye, Mamae.” Ayla took Mary’s hand, “Come on, if we’re quick I’ll have time to make Sammen’s da his last cup of good tea while you two make goo-goo eyes at each other.”

“I do  _not_  make ‘goo-goo eyes’.” Mary huffed as she followed her sister out of the house.

“Right, what would  _you_  call it then?” Ayla grinned, “Because you certainly don’t look at me or mamae that way.”

“Ugh.” Mary stuck her tongue out, “First of all, you’re my sister. Second of all, you don’t have Sammen’s cute dimples. Thirdly it is  _vultus domini caritate_  not ‘goo-goo eyes’.”

“Vole-thus do-mini cari-what?” Ayla’s face screwed up in confusion as they walked through the alienage streets towards Sammen’s house.

“ _Vultus domini caritate_.” Mary repeated, “It’s Tevene. It means the feeling of first falling in love worn on your face.”

“You mean goo-goo eyes.” Ayla rolled her eyes.

“I. do. Not. make. Goo-goo eyes.” Mary emphasized, crossing her arms.

“Alright, alright. Fine.” Ayla conceded, “You make fancy  _Tevinter_  goo-goo eyes.”

“ _Vultus domini caritate_.” Mary corrected.

“ _Vultus domini caritate_.” Ayla repeated, correctly this time, “Oh look. We’re here. Now you can practice your  _vultus domini caritate_.”

“I’m going to regret teaching you that, aren’t I?”

“Probably.” Ayla grinned as she knocked on the door.

“Hang on!” A muffled voice came from inside. There was a thump and the sound of footsteps. Moments later the door was thrown wide open to reveal Sammen.

“Mary!” Sammen cracked a grin from ear to ear.

“Hi, Sammen.” Mary giggled,  _vultus domini caritate_  all over her face.

“Hey, I’m here too.” Ayla joked, lightly punching Sammen on the arm before breezing past him into the house.

“Oh, hi Ayla.” Sammen said sheepishly.

“Good evening Mr. Alberts.” Ayla hugged an old elf wrapped in blankets sitting by the fire, “Would you like some tea?”

Mr. Alberts smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

“Has Sammen introduced you to my sister yet?” Ayla asked as she put water on to boil. Mr. Alberts nodded and waggled his eyebrows.

“That’s what  _I_  said.” Ayla laughed, “Are you two coming in or are you going to stand in the door all night?”

“Oh. Right!” Sammen was suddenly aware he hadn’t moved, “Would you like to come in, Mary?”

“Thank you, Sammen.” Mary gave a shy smile.

The fact that Mary’s hand found Sammen’s as they walked towards the fire and settled themselves in did not go unnoticed by Ayla.

“What brings you here at this hour?” Sammen asked.

“Bad news, I’m afraid.” Ayla retrieved Mr. Alberts’s teapot from the cupboard as well as the little clay pot where he kept his tea. The kettle on the fire was rumbling with the sounds of water pre-boil, “News of the Circle rebellion’s made it this far. Hahren Shianni came by earlier this evening to let us know the templars have rebelled too and are hunting down mages.”

“Are you going to be alright, Mary?” Sammen placed a concerned arm around Mary’s waist.

“Mother is taking us to find the Dalish.” Mary gave Sammen a sad smile, “She says I’ll be safer there, and that the clans have experience evading the templars.”

“Are you…coming back?” Sammen ventured.

“I…I don’t know.” Mary flung herself at Sammen, wrapping him tight in her arms.

“They can’t fight forever.” Ayla offered gently. The kettle had gone silent, signalling the water was on the edge of boiling. She removed it from the fire and poured a measure of water into the teapot to warm it while she readied the tea leaves.

“Right!” Sammen said as bravely as he could, rubbing Mary’s shoulder, “You’ll come back once it’s all over. Funny stories about hunting in the woods and your face all decorated with one of them vallaslin thingies.”

Mary looked up at Sammen and made a face.

“It won’t be long, you’ll see.” He laughed.

“It’ll be an adventure.” Ayla added, pouring the warming water out of the teapot and inserting the tea leaves in their strainer before pouring the rest of the kettle over top, “A story to bore your children with someday.”

“Parts will certainly be like that.” Mary’s smile was brave and sad, “I guess I can look forward to that.”

“See? Dreaming of the stars.” Sammen smiled at her.

“We will probably see plenty of those.” Ayla gathered a mismatched collection of cups and poured the tea when it had reached the perfect golden color before getting the tinge of brown that would signify over-steeping, “There you are, Mr. Alberts, last cup of decent tea you’ll have until we get back.”

Mr. Alberts took the cup and smiled. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before taking the first sip. There was a moment, and then he sighed in satisfaction. It  _was_  a decent cup of tea.

“Okay, don’t leave me out.” Sammen reached for his own cup, grabbing one for Mary, “I have to drink what I make  _too_.”

“Is it really that bad?” Mary accepted the cup handed her.

“Yes.” Sammen and Ayla said together. Mr. Alberts was nodding emphatically.

“There’s a reason I’ve never made any for you.” Enjoyment spreading across Sammen’s face as he drank his tea.

“I’m - I’m afraid to say that I’m curious now.” Mary raised a brow.

“I’d say it was something else to look forward to,” Sammen’s lips curled into a self-conscious smirk, “But you really, really shouldn’t look forward to it.”

“I’ll just settle for looking forward to seeing you again, then.” Mary placed a shy kiss on Sammen’s cheek. This had the immediate effect of turning Sammen a rather violent shade of scarlet.

“Awww, so cute!” Ayla teased, eyes sparkling. Mr. Alberts made kissing noises with his lips.

“Ma _ry_.” Sammen whined, “Not in front of them.”

“Sorry.” Mary kissed him again, “I just can’t help myself.”

Ayla and Mr. Alberts just sat in silence, their smiles saying everything their voices didn’t.

“Maker help me.” Sammen whimpered.

Topics eventually moved on from embarrassing young love as the friends emptied the teapot cup by cup and story by story. But there will never be enough tea for all the stories that can be told. Eventually the time came for Ayla and Mary to make their final goodbyes.

“Goodbye, Sammen.” Ayla hugged her best friend tight, tears clinging to the corners of her eyes. She breathed him in, trying to burn everything about this moment in her memory. It shouldn’t be goodbye forever, but somehow…it felt like it was going to be.

“You’ll be back.” He whispered, “Don’t make me come after you.”

“You would too, wouldn’t you.” She let go and smiled.

“Never doubt it.” Sammen smiled back, hugging her again.

Mary gave a delicate cough.

“I’ll just…give you two a moment.” Ayla let go of Sammen and started on the way to Alarith’s. 

She managed to make it to the store and was on the way home before Mary’s running footsteps caught up with her. Ayla looked at her sister’s face, red and puffy from crying. 

“ _Vultus domini caritate._ “ Ayla whispered as she caught Mary’s arm with her own. Mary laughed despite herself.

When they reached home, the found Rosha had finished packing, everything was ready. Ayla looked around the small shack that had been home for her whole life. She could feel the pain, but it was a long way off still, there wasn’t enough time for it to be  _real_ yet. There would be a lot of crying in her future.

For now though, she sighed and took the pack Rosha handed her. There was only one moon in the sky tonight, it seemed to reflect the melancholy Ayla felt as the Adalens left the alienage for what felt like the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t find a resource for Tevene as detailed as Project Elvhen, so I’ve substituted Latin. The translation is literally “the look of love”. I’ve headcanon’d here that mages use Tevene a bit like Regency era England used French: incorrectly and to make themselves look smart.
> 
> Why Tevene? With mages having the most freedom there I headcanon that most of the good academic articles and original sources are in Tevene. Since tower mages apparently have nothing to do but study magic until they die (unless a blight pops up), they’ve probably read a lot of Tevene. Censored by the Chantry, of course.
> 
> The tea making instructions are specific to Oolong tea (or any yellow* tea for that matter).
> 
> Alberts is again a deliberate name choice here. The alienage origin in DA:O specifies that the the elves were sold as slaves from the alienage during the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden. Albert is an Orlesian name, so at one point in the family history, the Alberts belonged to an Albert. And now you know something upsetting about American lastnames that end with an ‘s’.
> 
> *Yellow is the fermentation** step between green and black. I’m sure there’s a word for it in English, but I don’t know it. I learned to be picky about tea in Chinese it’s a literal translation.
> 
> **Fermentation is another incorrect literal translation.


	3. Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children. - Eric Draven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Adalen family seeks a Dalish clan to help protect Mary from the rogue templars. A chance meeting in the woods changes their destination to the Conclave in Haven.

Ayla and her family had been on the road for three days when they caught word of a Dalish clan in the area. Or so the farmer had said when they had stopped to ask. A clan was only a day ahead of them, somewhere further into the woods to the south. They thanked the farmer and continued their journey.

Rosha’s optimism was bolstered by the nearness of the clan. Mary remained apprehensive, while Ayla continued to wear a brave face. They trusted their mother, but even the more social of the Dalish clans were not known for their warm welcomes. It took a considerable effort on Ayla’s part not to dwell on Sammen’s tale of his first encounter with the Dalish, she wisely chose not to share the story with her family.

Open farm lands gave way to trees. It was a welcome change as emerald leaves gave shelter from the relentless sun. Ayla felt squinting muscles around her eyes relax as they adjusted to the shade. It was peaceful, calming. She did not notice that Mary had started to lag behind.

“Wait…” Mary spoke, stumbling to a stop, “I feel suddenly…weak.”

Ayla rushed to her sister’s side, slipping an arm around Mary’s back to steady her.

“We can stop for awhile. There’s water and dried fruit.” Rosha fretted over her girls, looking for a comfortable spot alongside the road to rest.

“I just need a moment.” Mary said weakly, “I’m sure it will pass.”

She gave them an exhausted smile and then her knees gave way. Ayla managed to catch her before she hit the ground, slipping Mary’s arm over her own shoulder to help support her weight.

“I could use a rest.” Ayla struggled to find a secure, upright position for both her and Mary.

“As could I.” Rosha added, catching on, “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you ins-” Mary’s head lolled and she collapsed against Ayla, unconscious.

“For your own safety, step away from the apostate.” A voice came in a muffled metal echo. Templars stepped out from behind trees. Ayla felt her chest tighten, blood rushing in her ears as she clung to her sister’s limp body. She fought to keep her breathing under control as cold tendrils of fear wrapped tight around her heart.

“Ayla.” Rosha’s voice was firm and hard, “Give me the bow.”

“Mamae-” Ayla started.

“Give. Me. the. Bow.” Rosha repeated, “Take your sister and get away from here.”

“Mamae?” Ayla whispered as she passed over the weapon.

“Ar lath se.” Rosha’s eyes were soft on her youngest daughter’s face as she reached into the quiver at Ayla’s side and took her arrows.

“Put down your weapon.” a templar spoke, “We are here to protect you.”

“Protect me from my own daughter?” Rosha spat with venom that had been brewing for sixteen years. Fires roared in her eyes as Rosha nocked an arrow. There was a pause as the templars faced a lone old woman with anger on her side. Fate hung in the air.

A templar took a step forward.

“Mythal, all-mother, protector, goddess of justice, guide my arrows. Save my daughters.” Rosha loosed her arrow. It passed through the eye slit in the templar’s visor with a squelching thud. He crumpled and fate came crashing down.

Ayla faltered. She tried to carry her sister, to watch her mother, to run, all at once. Her vision blurred and tunneled as her heart pounded in her ears over the crash of armor growing nearer. She had to run.

Her feet sorted themselves out with no help from her brain, dashing through the trees blindly with Mary clutched to her breast. Fear chased thought away, Alya didn’t even feel the weight of her sister in her arms, there was only running. It seemed to go on forever.

Weakness flooded into Ayla’s legs all at once as the adrenaline left. First she stumbled, then she slowed, and finally collapsed, sobbing.

Mary stirred.

“Ayla? Ayla, what’s wrong?” She reached up and wiped tears from her sister’s face with her hand, “Where’s mother?”

Ayla cried harder, clinging to her sister.

“No, no, shh.” Mary hugged Ayla and smoothed her hair, “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“Hand over the mage.”

The hollow metal voice froze both sisters in place. The templars had caught up with them. Fewer than before, but their swords were bloodier than before.

“Enough!” Mary roared, magic crackling around her fingers as she flung fire.

It bounced off a shield and fizzled, leaving nothing but a blackened splotch to show it’s passing. Mary rallied to try again, but the air was too thick, too real, and she could not draw enough power. She was already wobbly from the first spell and the air was getting thicker all the time. The magic snuffed out.

Mary fell back, clinging to Ayla who hugged her in return. There would be no being dragged back to the circle, no trial, not even the dark hope of imprisonment in Aeonar. Mary kissed her sister and rested her forehead on Ayla’s.

“I’m sorry.” Mary whispered.

“No.” Was all Ayla could say. She tried to put herself between Mary and the templars, unsure of what she could actually do at this point.

The templars tightened their circle and advanced, dappled sunlight animating their crimson swords.

There came a buzzing, softly at first but rapidly crescendoing into a cacophonous whine that blotted all other sounds out of the air.

Hundreds,  _thousands_  of hornets flooded from the trees. The cloud of stinging insects descended on the group. Swords are no use against a swarm and armor cannot protect against a hornet in a stinging mood. There were gurgling screams that ended in choking noises as the hornets finished the job Rosha’s arrows had started.

Ayla watched in horrified awe. Mary buried her face in Ayla’s shoulder trying to block it all out. Neither sister suffered a single sting.

Their grisly work complete, the hornets swarmed together, becoming denser and denser until a thousand insects became one woman. She wore red armor that was more decorative than practical, white hair was wrapped in leather to look like the horns of a dragon. A cowl of black feathers danced around her shoulders as she moved towards the sisters. Everything about her demanded reverence.

“It has been a long, long time since I was the answer to a prayer.” The woman said, her voice honey wine.

“Mythal?” Ayla whispered, uncertain but respectfully standing up as the woman approached.

The woman’s yellow eyes twinkled as she laughed.

“That’s a maleficar.” Mary pulled on her sister’s dress.

“Cannot a maleficar answer a prayer as easily as a god?” The woman asked, still amused.

“Either way, you’re dangerous.” Mary frowned, leaning against Ayla to stand.

“A truth often lost quarreling over details.” The woman smiled.

“Either way,  _thank you_  for protecting us.” Ayla shot her sister a look. Maleficar or Mythal, it probably wasn’t a good idea to provoke the woman who could turn into a stinging hoard of insects.

“Erm, yes. Thank you.” Mary echoed.

“You are welcome, although,” The woman’s smile melted into sadness, “I am sorry I could not do the same for your mother. For what it is worth, which is very little.”

“It’s not your fault, you did what you could.” Ayla’s voice was soft, but Mary still fixed the woman with a hard look.

“Did I?” The woman raised her chin and looked at the sisters from the corner of her eye, “I suppose I did. Right or wrong, the choice was made and now we deal with the consequences. Tell me, what will you do now?”

“We were looking for the Dalish.” Ayla looked at Mary, unsure, “But without mamae, I don’t know how we’ll get the clan to accept Mary.”

“That was never a good plan in the first place. It left you out of it.” Mary countered, “We should look for other mages. Some of them were organizing.”

“Your Divine has called a conclave in the town of Haven in an effort to negotiate a compromise between mage and templar.” The woman said to Mary before fixing her gaze on Ayla, smiling at some private joke, “You may find a solace there.”

“Then that is where we’ll go.” Mary nodded.

“Are you sure?” Ayla’s voice quavered.

“What other choice do we have?” Mary shrugged.

“Not very many good ones, I’ll admit.” Ayla gave a small smile.

“You are set in your path then, to Haven?” The woman asked.

“I suppose we are.” Ayla said, “Thank you again.”

“May I offer you one last gift before you go?”

“Why?” Mary’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Why?” The woman laughed, “Because I was asked. Because I see lives filled with loss. Because I see myself in you. Because I am in a rare mood of generosity.”

“I don’t accept gifts from maleficar.” Mary frowned, but added, “Thank you.”

“I am hardly surprised. You have shaped your life through rejection, and made yourself out of what you are not.” The woman’s mirth did not subside as she turned to Ayla, “But what of you? An outsider who never felt invited in. A lonely vantage point, but one that lets you see the bigger picture.”

“I-” Ayla looked nervously at Mary, then back at the woman, “I would thank you for any gift you bestow.”

“Ayla!” Mary huffed.

“She offered help,” Ayla defended herself, “I want to accept it.”

Mary rolled her eyes.

“Come here, child.” The woman beckoned. Ayla stepped forward.

“I can return at least one thing you have lost,” She handed Ayla her bow back and a collection of arrows, “You will need them soon.”

“And I offer my blessing.” The woman leaned down and kissed Ayla’s forehead. A glyph shimmered silver where the woman’s lips had touched Ayla’s skin and was gone.

“Our paths will cross again.” She whispered, quiet enough for only Ayla to hear, “When your losses are greater than they are now. Learn from them, and live moving forward.”

“Thank you.” Ayla clutched the bow to her chest as the woman stepped away.

“You are welcome.” The woman’s smile was enigmatic, “One last piece of advice: the thirst for knowledge is hardly ever satiated, and should not go unchecked by wisdom. Goodbye, and good luck - to both of you.”

The woman left the way she had come, the buzz of wings fading away in the trees.

“That was stupid.” Mary grabbed Ayla by the arms, staring at her forehead, “She could have done anything.”

“She gave back mamae’s bow.”

“And what else?” Magic sparked again in Mary’s hand as she passed it over where Ayla’s forehead had glowed. Mary frowned.

“Advice, I think.” Ayla clung to the bow as a child might their blanket.

“Well, whatever that was, it’s gone now.” Mary let her magic fade, “Must have just been a glamour, for effect. You’re lucky she didn’t use blood magic on you. Next time, listen to me.  _Please_. You’re my little sister. I haven’t been around, but I’m still supposed to keep you safe. Especially now.”

Mary’s anger softened.

“We should get back to the road.” Ayla swallowed, realizing what that would mean.

“Haven is a long way off.” Mary took Ayla’s hand, “But we’ll make it together.”

The sisters were more cautious on the journey to the Frostback Mountains. Travelling alongside the road, or with merchants when they encountered one going their way. Ayla’s hunting skills made them a welcome addition to any camp.

Mercifully, they did not encounter any more templars until they drew closer to the conclave. Those the sisters did begin to encounter were uneasy, but not hostile. This did not stop Ayla from occasionally freezing up or inserting herself between her sister and the templars whenever possible.

The uneasy truce between mages and templars on the road colored the mood over Haven and the conclave. More were arriving every day. The peace talks stuttered forwards as the conclave continued to wait on the arrival of the mage and templar leadership respectively.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes turned to a makeshift dormitory. The small town of Haven was ill-equipped for the sudden influx of people. Mary spent much of her time with the other mages, sharing stories of Circle rebellions and hopes for what the future of magic in Thedas might look like. Ayla could either be found at her sister’s side wandering the halls of the temple, exploring the passages but keeping well away from where the templars were housed.

It was a strange, in between time. Ayla felt as if they were teetering on the verge of an abyss. The next disaster lurking around the corner. Mary would tell her it was the grief, and that it was okay, they still had each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar lath se - From the Project Elvhen; theoretically I think it should be something like “I love you both”. But I am neither a linguist nor the greatest at grammar.
> 
> Hey. Here’s a fun idea: What if templars were actually effective against mages? (j/k it's an awful idea)
> 
> Writing Flemeth’s cryptic dialogue when we already know what she’s talking about is a lot of fun, I highly recommend it. Also doing her weird character analysis for ocs is fun, and also recommended. Just…I recommend writing Flemeth. 10/10 would use character again. I just really like Flemeth, you guys.
> 
> In other news: I think I’ve finished hanging all my rifles. Moving on to the actual events of the Inquisition next chapter (aka where I actually meant to start). Woo!


	4. The Unexamined Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events leading up to Ayla’s first attempt to close the Breach from Solas’s point of view. Some events from the game have been changed, moved around, or retconned completely as they make no sense when Wrath of Heaven no longer functions as an introduction to the story. 
> 
> Solas is also full stuck-up-son-of-a-tied-down…well, you know…in this chapter.

The woman that lay beside him in the cell was a puzzle. There were the obvious components, the mark on her hand was the same as the Breach in the sky. Pulsating with a perversion of his magic. To be expected when he entrusted his orb, however briefly, to the power mad Tevinter. What wasn’t obvious was why she bore the mark. It seemed unlikely Corypheus would entrust such power to another, the man had been far too pompous for that.

And she had been in the Fade - and survived! She had been found, falling out of one of the smaller rifts. Had it been the mark or something else? Was she helped by the spirit people were calling Andraste? No matter how he probed at the mark, what tests he ran, no answers presented themselves. More disturbing was the mass exodus of spirits in the nearby area. The Breach in the sky was an angry storm in the Fade, threatening to obliterate all he held dear. If he could find no answers here, he would have to move on. Whatever havoc Corypheus’s stumbling had caused needed to be repaired before he could open the Veil.

Then there were the smaller questions. Who was this woman? What was she doing at the Conclave? Beyond the mark, she had no magic, and her blood did not pulse with lyrium as a templar. Callouses on her fingers indicated some proficiency with a bow, but she wore a peasant’s clothes made of sturdy but well worn fabric, skillfully patched with embroidered flowers many times over. He would have expected armor if she was a member of one of the mercenary companies that had gathered at Haven during the conclave. Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast had asked around, trying to determine who this woman was, but none of the locals knew her. Which threw out his most likely explanation of her being native to Haven.

He cast another spell, testing to find some way to manipulate the connection between the woman’s hand and the rifts. If he could just draw together the constructive frequencies of the mark and the destructive ones of the rifts something would happen. Either the rifts would close or they would unravel all the way, completely destroying the world. Considering all of his other efforts to effect the rifts had come to naught, the fifty-fifty chance of total annihilation was sadly the best odds available. Certainly letting things continue as they were would lead to the end of the world eventually, better the quick knife than the slow strangulation.

The easy answer would be, of course, to drag the woman’s unconscious body to a rift and thrust the mark in. Seeker Pentaghast was not about to let that happen. It would be an easy thing to take on the mark himself, if he was sure that exposing it to the rift was survivable. He knew he had the best chance of anyone in Thedas of fixing the Veil, it was senseless to risk himself in such a manner. Although there might be little choice if this went on much longer.

“Has there been any progress, apostate?” The Seeker’s stilted words interrupted his thoughts.

“Hardly enough to stop the execution of a mage who volunteered his help, it would seem.” Solas responded in even tones.

The Seeker grunted.

“Perhaps if I rested, had something to eat.” Solas continued, “At times the quickest way to find a solution to a problem is to let it alone until an answer presents itself.”

“I should remember you offered aid freely.” The Seeker relented, opening the cell door to let him pass, “Take care, the forward camps have reported the large rift at the temple has gone quiet but I fear it is only a breath between attacks.”

“Consider me duly informed.” Solas nodded his head in acknowledgement as he exited.

He adopted his meek apostate posture as he climbed the stairs of Haven’s Chantry. A religion that built dungeons in their houses of worship was not to be trusted - or taken lightly. The Maker seemed well enough for a god, though he had little need to make ruthless displays of power when those who professed to follow him did it so well on their own. And when one of those displays of power was the oppression of mages…well…best they saw him as nonthreatening as possible.

The Singing Maiden had been his refuge during his stay. The noise of the tavern was the perfect blank canvas against which to paint his thoughts. The rowdier patrons tended to leave the lowly elf alone, more so now he had become associated with the Seeker. There wasn’t a soul in Haven that wanted to cross swords with Cassandra Pentaghast.

He took a table near the corner and signaled the barmaid, settling into a book while he waited.

“What’s the news on our mystery woman?” a dwarf climbed into the seat across from him, sliding a mug of ale across the table.

“Master Tethras.” Solas inclined his head towards his new companion, “Her status remains the same.”

“Still unconscious. Still glowing.” Varric took a swig from his own mug.

“Have your inquiries illuminated anything new about the prisoner?”

“I’m up to my eyebrows in dead ends. No one seems to know who she is or what she was doing here.” He frowned, “No one left, anyways.”

“At least you seem to have made a modicum of progress. Yesterday you were only up to your ass.”

“True.” Varric laughed, “Although that’s not saying much for a dwarf.”

“It seems our only hope for answers lies uncommunicative in a cell.”

“At least she has you looking out for her. Cassandra’s problem solving includes ‘hit it with a sword’ and ‘threaten to hit it with a sword’.” Varric smirked, “I should know. I’ve seen it in action.”

“I am almost certain that nothing I have done has been of help to the woman in any way.” Solas kept his face neutral.

“You give yourself too little credit, Chuckles. I don’t see any other mages jumping at the chance to go into a Chantry cell. You volunteered for that shit.”

“Some apostates are wiser than others.”

“True, not everyone is stupid enough to play diamondback with a dwarf.”

“I believe I was winning. 200 to 150.”

“Not after last night. I’ve got you 500 to 250.”

“Are you quite certain? I would think I would remember only winning one hand in…five?”

“Ha! See?” Varric was already pulling out a deck of cards, “Not even you’re immune to Flissa’s hard brews. I told you not to drink that second mug.”

“I shall have to reclaim my dignity.” Solas gave a rare smile.

“Don’t worry, Chuckles. Even when you’re drunk you’ve got it more together than a lot of sober people I know.”

An Inquisition soldier threw open the door to the Singing Maiden with enough drama to draw the attention of most of the patrons there. The soldier looked around the tavern before she hurried over to a table, whispering to the people sitting there. Solas recognized them as more soldiers, off duty.

The whole table stood, some left while others went to speak with others in the tavern. The process repeated until all members of the Inquisition seemed to be leaving. This did not go unnoticed by Varric, who grabbed the arm of one hurrying past their table.

“What’s going on?” Varric asked.

“The Herald of Andraste is awake. Commander Cullen wants all available men ready in case there’s an adverse reaction from the rifts.” she answered him.

“Once again the commander’s leeriness of magic does him credit.” Solas observed, standing. “Forgive me, Varric. We will have to resume our card game at another time.”

“No need to explain.” Varric waved Solas off, “But I  _am_  going to pump you for information when you get back.”

Solas walked. Others rushed around him and the air swirled with rumors. In the days following the explosion some had accused the prisoner of causing it, others had come to believe her a holy symbol. Now that she was awake, the two factions had begun to clash with each other in earnest. He did not envy the headache this would mean for the Inquisition’s leadership.

Arriving at the Chantry he found the door was now being guarded by two soldiers, probably due to Cassandra being prudent.

“Sorry, ser. We’ve got orders not to let anyone past.” the guard on the left held up a hand, stopping him.

“I am the mage who offered to assist Seeker Pentaghast.” Solas attempted to continue forward, only to have the guard push back.

“Seeker said no one passes. No one.”

“Surly she will need assistance in ascertaining the magical nature of-”

“No one.”

“Then I wish to speak to the Seeker directly.” Solas stepped back.

“She’s busy.”

“Of course she is.” Solas sighed, “Nevertheless I wish to speak with her, if you would be so kind to inform her of my desire.”

“She said she no one passes while she interrogates the prisoner.”

“And that includes you.” Solas caught on.

“Correct, ser. Sorry, ser.” The guard saluted.

“If you would be so kind as to inform Seeker Pentaghast that I wish to speak to her when you get a chance, I would appreciate it.”

“Of course, ser.”

Solas turned to walk back to the tavern. If he wasn’t to have answers, at least he could have dinner. The Singing Maiden was emptier, only a few stragglers still nursed mugs of ale. Varric was gone. The dwarf had probably left in search of better rumors, he always seemed to know exactly where the thick of it was and how to get himself in the middle of it. Varric’s absence allowed Solas to return to his reading while he ate the stew Flissa brought him.

He had been in the middle of a particularly interesting volume from a modern Fade scholar. Some of the conjectures that had been made about the Fade in the years that had followed raising the Veil were fascinating, just as many were enraging in their inaccuracy.

The third time Solas read the same sentence, however, he had to admit defeat. He sighed as he closed the book and set it aside. The woman in the cell occupied his thoughts. So many answers to his questions, so close at hand, but still eluding his grasp. It was upsetting.

He expected to see a messenger from Cassandra that evening in the tavern, but they did not come.

He expected that his slumber would be interrupted by a summons to meet with the seeker, but one did not come

He expected to receive word at breakfast, but it did not come.

Late afternoon rolled around and still nothing. Solas debated returning to the Chantry to repeat his request to speak with Seeker Pentaghast. It would behoove him to wait, but the not knowing was quickly growing to insufferable levels.

Solas found himself at the Chantry doors once again.

“Sorry, ser. No one is allowed in the Chantry at the moment, ser.” a new guard informed him.

“I wish to speak with Seeker Pentaghast.” Solas said.

“No one is allowed in.”

“I would appreciate you notifying her that I am waiting.” Solas pressed.

“Sorry ser. No one-”

Solas interrupted the guard with a hard look.

“I’ll let her know you’re here.” The now nervous guard opened the door to the Chantry and disappeared inside.

Solas stared at the door as if his eyes could bore holes through the wood. The remaining guard looked pointedly ahead, not wishing to draw the apostate’s ire as her companion had. A few moments passed and the door opened again.

“Solas.” Cassandra said as she appeared. She squared her stance and crossed her arms, “You wished to speak with me.”

“I was hoping to learn when you might allow me to see the prisoner?” He reminded himself to appear humble despite how much his curiosity chewed at him.

“She is awake and in good health. After Leliana and I finish questioning her, we will bring her into the valley.” Cassandra frowned.

“Then you intend to test my theory that the mark will close the Breach?”

“We do.”

“And I may speak with her at the Breach?”

“No.”

“No?” Solas repeated, showing more anger than he meant to.

“She will be taken to Val Royeux. To stand trial.”

“So you intend to use magic no one alive has seen before, to meddle with the Breach, the result of magic that has already taken unnumbered lives, without the council of the one mage that might have an inkling of not only what is happening, but what might happen should you attempt such a thing.” Solas kept his voice curt, but polite even as he felt his frustration building.

“Already Haven grows restless. They demand she be the one who pays for all that has happened…to keep her alive long enough for a trial stretches our resources.” Cassandra fixed Solas with the unwavering gaze he had come to know her for, “Should they also come to suspect the apostate mage…”

“I thank you for your concern but better they live to suspect me then perish in a foolhardy attempt by stumbling hands.”

Cassandra stared at him, brow furrowed in anger or thought, he could not tell.

“I concede your point.” She said at last, “Wait on the path into the valley, outside of the village.”

“Fewer eyes to draw unwelcome conclusions.” Solas nodded, a smile gently curving his lips. Cassandra was undoubtedly a woman of action, but her ability to be shrewd was not to be underestimated, “A wise compromise.”

The seeker grunted and disappeared back into the Chantry.

Solas, for his part, went to his tent to ensure he had all the supplies he might require. Varric was standing by the entrance, staring off at the horizon towards the Breach.

“Heard you were headed to the valley, Chuckles.”

“I am impressed. I had thought my conversation with Cassandra had been reasonably private.”

“Times like this? Only way to be sure a conversation stays private is to have it in your head.”

“Astute as always, Master Tethras.”

“I’m coming with you. You’ll need my and Bianca’s help if you want to meet the prisoner alive.” Varric shifted his stance as an easy smile spread across his face, “Did you get a name out of Cassandra? Or just disgusted grunts?”

“It did not come up, no.” Solas gave a brief chuckle, the sort that had earned him his nickname from the dwarf.

“I hate to keep calling her ‘the prisoner’, makes her sound guilty when we don’t know what happened. Just ‘boom’ and the world goes to shit. Funny how often that happens to me.”

“You might use ‘the herald’.” Solas watched Varric out of the corner of his eye for his reaction to this suggestion.

“Nah, that’s got a whole load of other crap attached to it. She just woke up. I should at least introduce myself before I start expecting her to pull miracles out of her ass.”

“A sentiment most could appreciate.”

“C’mon Chuckles, we should get moving while there’s still wear in our boots.”

Solas and Varric left Haven without trouble. Most of the occupants of the village were busy either preparing for battle or spreading rumors or both. Solas noted that the faction that blamed the prisoner for the Breach seemed to have claimed the majority. If the Inquisition was not careful, they would likely have a riot on their hands.

They found a waiting spot a respectable distance from the forward camp. Ruins provided a small amount of comfort, blocking the freezing mountain wind. Varric shivered and rubbed his arms for warmth.

“Have I ever mentioned how much I hate mountains?” Varric grumbled.

“Yes, I believe it has come up.” Solas barely managed to stop himself mid eye-roll, “I advise trying not to think about it.”

“That how you wade through this white shit with no shoes on?”

“The trick is to accept the cold. By not actively resisting the sensation, it becomes less of a discomfort.”

“You’re telling me you _philosophize_  your way out of freezing your ass off?”

“That is one way of putting it.” Solas chuckled.

“I think I’ll stick to good old fashioned dwarven complaining.” Varric shook his head, “It doesn’t make me any warmer, but it makes me feel better.”

“It certainly alerts others not only to your location, but your mood and temperament as well.”

“I wouldn’t want you to forget I was down here, Chuckles.”

“Put that way, your complaining is practically a service.”

“I am going to use that one later.” Varric laughed.

The air crackled with wild magic and they were momentarily blinded by a flash of green light as a rift opened up in their midst. Demons poured out, spirits twisted by the pain and shock at suddenly finding themselves outside the Fade. What had once been gentle hearts of concern and caution had turned to sharpened points of fear and terror.

“Not how I was hoping to warm up.” Varric had already unslung his crossbow, Bianca, and began dispatching their attackers.

“What is the phrase? Beggars can’t be choosers?” Solas pulsed with his own magic, turning it against the demons.

“I believe I was complaining, not begging.” Bianca twanged as another demon sprouted a bolt between their eyes.

“I stand corrected.” Lightning cracked through the air, dissipating a wraith.

Varric laughed, squeezing off two more shots. Between his bolts and Solas’s lightning they were able to make short work of the demons.

“That could have been worse.” Solas observed as the last wraith melted into nothing. As if responding to him, the rift crackled and released more demons into the world.

“You just had to tempt fate, didn’t you.” Varric shook his head while he reloaded Bianca, “The Seeker better show up soon or the only thing we’ll be meeting are our entrails.”

Like she had heard her name, Cassandra came charging down the path to join the fray. Her arrival on the scene heralded by several arrows flying through the air and finding new homes in the chests and eye sockets of the gathered demons. Solas followed the path of the arrows back to their source to find the prisoner. It seemed that his conjecture about her familiarity with a bow had been correct. Someone had apparently found her a felted wool coat, several sizes too large. The sleeves had been rolled up a ridiculous number of times and the waist of the garment hung somewhere around her hips. She would have looked almost child-like if not for the expression of perfect focus on her face, nocking arrows from the quiver she wore at her side almost faster than his eyes could follow. The mark on her hand pulsed, tendrils of magic reaching towards the rift. He could feel the mark and rift calling to each other, the sensation rippling over his skin like an echo. Solas fought his way to her side. He had to get the mark closer.

As Varric dispatched of the last of the demons, Solas grabbed the prisoner’s wrist, dragging her towards the rift.

“Quickly! Before more come through.” Solas thrust the prisoner’s hand into the rift. Magic vibrated in the air around them as the mark and the rift snapped together, harmonizing their frequencies. She resisted him at first, trying to pull away. He watched her face carefully, wondering what she was thinking. What she would do. She was focused on the rift, her pulling stopped when she saw it closing. He even felt her push forward a bit, trying to move the mark closer. That was interesting.

There was another burst of green light as the rift shut. The prisoner had not died, nor did she seem to have come to a disproportionate amount of harm. Indeed, she was staring at the mark in wonder, slowly flexing her hand.

“What did you  _do_?” She asked.

“I did nothing, the credit is yours.” Solas considered the woman before him. That her first impulse was to credit someone else with the victory was surprising.

“Mine, or the mark’s?” She looked up from her hand at him.

“Whatever magic placed that breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake -  and it seems I was correct.”

“So the mark’s then.” She gave him a shy smile and he noticed her eyes were red, like she had just been crying, “I knew I didn’t do anything other than stand there looking stupid.”

“Then the mark _can_ close the Breach.” Cassandra joined the conversation.

“Possibly.” Solas acknowledged the seeker, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Possibly.” The prisoner repeated his word back at him, “Only if it works, though.”

“Good to know. Here I thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever.” Varric had finished picking demon goo off his gloves and walked over to the prisoner, “Varric Tethras: rouge, storyteller, and occasional unwelcome tagalong.”

Cassandra made a disgruntled sound.

“Ayla Adalen: flower seller, sharpshooter, and occasional Chantry prisoner.” She curtsied, “My friends call me Spoon.”

Cassandra made another disgruntled sound.

Solas raised an eyebrow in surprise. Adalen was the name of a Dalish clan, what was a human doing with it? Not to mention she curtsied to dwarves.

“Spoon?” Varric seemed taken aback that someone had come pre-nicknamed.

“Oh, you know. On account of the ears.” Ayla gestured at the sides of her head with her fingers.

Questions were forming on Varric’s face that he hadn’t quite managed to find words for yet.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased you still live.”

“Solas?” Ayla turned back to him, “Your parents must have been very doting.”

“Pardon?” Solas cocked his head to consider her. There was nothing about this conversation he could have predicted. It was…refreshing.

“Do you have a sibling named Nehn?” Ayla asked.

“Oh! I see.” Solas chuckled, “No. I have no relation to Nehn.”

“If you are finished.” Cassandra interjected, “We should continue to the valley. Varric, thank you for your help. You should return to Haven.”

“Are you kidding me, Seeker?” Varric shook his head, “Have you been to the valley? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

“Ugh.” Cassandra rolled her eyes and started walking down the path, “I doubt I could stop you.”

Solas followed after her. The sooner they closed the Breach, the sooner he could return to what he had been doing before the sky started falling apart. Varric, and now Ayla, might be entertaining diversions, but they were still diversions.

“Well, Bianca’s excited.” He heard Varric say behind him.

“Bianca?” Ayla asked.

“Say hello, Bianca.”

“Your crossbow is named Bianca?”

“Of course, isn’t she a beauty?”

“I had been admiring her ratchet system. I’ve never seen a crossbow that draws so quickly.”

“She’s one of a kind. You’ve got yourself a real looker too, what kind of wood is that?”

“Ironbark. It was mamae’s bow.” Ayla’s voice cracked.

“Shit. You okay?”

“No. Yes. Maybe? It’s fine.” she sniffed, “I just need to focus on the task at hand.”

Solas looked back over his shoulder. Ayla was vigorously rubbing tears out of her eyes with one of her over-sized sleeves while Varric looked up at her with concern.

“Solas.” Cassandra’s voice drew his attention away.

“Yes, Seeker?” He answered.

“Now that you have seen the mark in action, are you able to draw any new conclusions?” Cassandra asked.

“The magic involved here is unlike any I have seen.” Solas cast another glance back at Ayla, “Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

“How do you know so much about the mark?” Ayla asked, catching up to him.

“Solas is an apostate.” Cassandra answered for him. As if his status as an apostate explained anything.

“Technically all mages are now apostates, Cassandra.” Solas continued, “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage.”

“Then the mark, and the Breach, are related to the Fade?” Ayla was looking up at him again, her face red and ruddy from where she had been rubbing it.

“All magic is related to the Fade. Every mage who casts a spell is drawing on the Fade in some capacity.” He found himself enjoying her curiosity, though it would likely matter little in the end, “But yes, the Breach - and the subsequent rifts - are interfering with the function of the Veil. The mark on your hand seems to grant you the ability to seal the rifts and repair the Veil.”

“Well, shit.” Varric said.

“Something the matter, Varric?” Solas asked.

“I just got this feeling that this is all going to lead to me entering the Fade…again.” Varric sounded almost as disgruntled as Cassandra.

The green light of a rift reflected lazily against the snow, right in front of gate to the forward camp. Demons and wraiths patrolled the area nearby. Ayla and Varric readied their weapons as Cassandra stalked into position. An arrow flew, followed by a bolt, taking the first two demons by surprise. The wraiths turned their attention on the archers, allowing Cassandra to ambush them. Solas summoned ice, freezing one and allowing the Seeker to concentrate her attacks.

“Alright, Spoon. You go left, I’ll go right.” Varric yelled over the sounds of battle. Ayla nodded and they began to circle the field, firing into the fray and making it difficult for the enemy to focus on any one target. This made it easy for himself and Cassandra to pick off the demons one by one.

Soon only the rift remained. Solas’s eyes followed Ayla to see what she would do. She took a few hesitant steps toward the glowing hole and raised the mark. Again, the two magics snapped together, harmonizing until the frequency of the rift abated causing the phenomena to send out another burst of light and disappear. This time, Solas was able to note the subtlest of twitches on Ayla’s face. It seemed the process was not completely pain-free.

“You are becoming quite proficient at this.” Solas commented.

“Let’s hope it works on the big one.” Varric wiped gore off of Bianca.

“Is there a plan B if it doesn’t?” Ayla asked.

“Pray.” Cassandra said.

“Seeker…was that a joke? I’m rubbing off on you, aren’t I?” Varric laughed.

Cassandra grunted.

“Open the gate. The rift has been dealt with.” Cassandra changed the subject with all the subtly of a shield bash to the face.

“Right away, Seeker Pentaghast.” The voice of a soldier came from beyond. The doors squeaked on their hinges as they swung open, revealing Leliana arguing with a chancellor whose facial hair never seemed to have come all the way in.

“And here they are.” The man said in a voice that encouraged immediate dislike.

“Chancellor Roderick, this is-”

“I know who she is. As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

“‘Order me?’” Cassandra’s voice was the sound of fury, “You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!” Rodrick shot back.

It was interesting to note that Cassandra did not grunt at him. As prickly as the Seeker could be, it seemed the noise was, in its way, a sound of affection. Of which she clearly had none for this chancellor.

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know.” Leliana added to the argument. She had more patience than Cassandra, but she was reaching the end of it.

“Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement, and obey her orders on the matter!” Rodrick yelled like he was hoping volume would substitute for intellect.

“Should we just nicely ask the demons to wait patiently while a new Divine is elected?” Ayla’s voice was smooth, jovial even, “Not the soundest strategy I’ve ever heard. I thought perhaps I might try my hand at closing the Breach before I was beheaded. If that’s acceptable to you.”

“You opened it in the first place!” Roderick was turning some rather unpleasant shades of scarlet.

“Isn’t that just another reason I should try closing it?” Ayla returned calmly, flowing around his anger, “Unless you have another idea to keep us from all dying on the mountainside?”

“Call a retreat, Seeker. Our position is hopeless.”

Cassandra walked slowly and purposefully towards Roderick. The man visibly cowed.

“We can stop this before it’s too late.” She said.

“How? You won’t survive the valley long enough to reach the temple, even with all your soldiers.” Roderick backed away from the more powerful woman.

“We must get to the temple. It’s the quickest route.” Cassandra repeated, ready to make it so by will alone.

“Not the safest. Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains.” Leliana offered.

“We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It is too risky.” Cassandra said. Her assessment of risk seemed dubious at best, but it was very like her to chose the known danger of charging the valley over the unknown of the pass. Solas shifted, wondering how he could steer them towards the safer route.

“Listen to me! Abandon this now before more lives are lost!” Roderick was whining now.

The Breach interrupted the debate, expanding. The mark on Ayla’s hand responded, and she fell to her knees with a cry, clutching her wrist and gritting her teeth against the pain.

“This just isn’t your day.” Varric helped Ayla stand back up, “You okay?”

“I’d  _really_  like to close the Breach now.” She said through a pained smile.

“How do you think we should proceed?” Cassandra asked her, now completely ignoring Roderick.

“Me?” Ayla’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“You have the mark.” Solas supported the sudden shift in power. He was curious as to what Ayla would do with it.

“And you are the one we must keep alive. Since we cannot agree on our own…” Cassandra concluded.

Ayla’s eyes fixed on the mountains in the distance, and on the Breach. She slide her teeth over her bottom lip, catching the corner.

“If you haven’t heard from your squad, they could still be alive. If we can help them, we should.” She said at last. Varric sighed with relief. Cassandra pursed her lips, but went with the decision made.

“Leliana, bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone.” Cassandra swung into action. One admirable quality of the Seeker was that once something was decided, she was always full force behind it. Although Solas was sure this same trait made it very difficult to change Cassandra’s mind.

“On your head be the consequences, Seeker.” Rodrick got in one more dig as the companions left the camp. Cassandra darkened. The group traveled the winding mountain path towards a complex just barely visible in the distance.

“So. Denerim?” Varric tried to ease the tension that had been hanging since the forward camp.

“Yes, how did you know?” Ayla asked.

“I’ve got a good ear for accents, and I know a fellow city dweller when I see one.” Varric explained.

“And here I thought I was adapting so well.” Ayla smiled. Solas noted this time that it did not seem to reach her eyes. Since they had met, she was continually pushing past some sadness.

“It’s the way you stare at the inclined terrain like it’s personally offended you.” Varric laughed, “Trust me. I get it. What were you doing all the way out in Haven?”

“I came with my sister for the Conclave. She is-” Ayla cracked again, “She was a mage.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Varric’s voice took on a comforting tone, “Soul Survivors never have happy stories.”

“Well, if we can manage to reach the Breach alive, maybe we can at least make it bittersweet.” Ayla said as they reached the structure they had been walking towards.

“That’s…relentlessly optimistic.” Varric replied as he started climbing a ladder towards an entrance into the mountain.

“I wouldn’t be able to get past the fact the only thing I have to look forward to after this is a beheading if I was pessimistic about it.” Ayla began climbing after him.

“I promised you a trial, and you will get one.” Cassandra added as she too began the climb.

“If Chancellor Roderick is representative of what remains of the Chantry’s justice system, I can understand Ayla’s forgone conclusion.” Solas followed after the rest of the group.

“Not everyone in the Chantry is as…” Cassandra paused, searching for a word.

“Repugnant?” Varric offered.

“Distasteful?” Ayla added.

“Insipid?” Solas couldn’t resist joining.

“Ugh.” Cassandra grunted.

“That too.” Varric laughed.

“The tunnel should be just ahead. The path to the temple lies beyond.” Cassandra called up to Varric as he reached the top of the ladder.

“What manner of tunnel is it? Mine?” Solas’s interest piquing. The mountains were full of fascinating ruins. It was too bad the Breach was warping the natural state of the Fade in the area or he could spend centuries exploring the memories here.

“An old mining complex. The mountains are full of such paths.” Cassandra answered.

“Who was mining here? Not dwarves.” Varric asked.

“I don’t know.” Cassandra said with some surprise, “I had always assumed it was the dragon cult that occupied Haven before the Chantry reclaimed the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“There’s an awful lot of stonewall and brickwork for a mine.” Ayla commented as she peered into the entrance. Solas caught himself smiling at her observation. Though it had been built on, he could see the elven bones of the architecture in the tunnel. It certainly was not a mine.

“Perhaps we were misinformed.” Cassandra shrugged her shoulders, “It matters little. There is a path and it gets us to the Temple.”

Demons prowled the short path through the mountain, but they were beginning to work reasonably well as a group. The source of the demons became apparent when they exited the tunnel, a rift awaited them on the other side. What remained of the missing scout patrol was doing their best to hold off the monsters. There was no hesitation: they joined the fray.

With the demons clear and the scouting patrol out of danger, Ayla approached the rift. She displayed more confidence this time, bracing herself against the magic and presumably the pain.

“Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer.” One of the scouts said as Cassandra helped them up.

“Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant. She insisted we come this way.” Cassandra looked back at Ayla who was flexing her hand.

“The prisoner? Then you…?”

“I’m glad we were able to help.” Ayla gave the scout a small smile, “It was worth the risk.”

“Then you have my sincere gratitude.” The scout saluted Ayla. Solas watched as her eyes widen briefly in surprise before she returned the salute with a slight bow.

“The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment. Go, while you still can.” Cassandra directed the patrol.

“At once.” The scout acknowledged Cassandra before turning to the rest of the patrol, “Quickly, let’s move!”

“The path ahead appears to be clear of demons as well.” Solas said, joining Cassandra and Ayla where they stood.

“Let’s hurry. Before that changes.” Cassandra lead the way down to the Temple, or what was left of it. Small fires still burned while errant magic caused the upturned stones that lined the crater to pulse green. As they drew closer to the Breach, twisted bodies, mummified but the sudden heat and magic of the explosion told a twisted tale of the events that had unfolded there.

“Oh!” A small cry of distress escaped Ayla’s mouth before she covered it with the palm of her hand. She approached one of the bodies, almost reverently, her other hand outreached as if to touch it.

“Don’t.” Varric knocked her hand away, “Red Lyrium. I’ve seen it before. No touching, it’s evil.”

Ayla nodded mutely, and walked the path through the ruins more slowly after that, observing every grim statue. Solas realized she was probably thinking about her sister. It was a difficult thing being asked of her, yet still she pushed on.

“What’s it doing here, Seeker?” Varric turned to Cassandra.

“Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it…” Solas looked at the crystalline structures, how had Corypheus managed that? It was the same material the magister had augmented his physical form with. Perhaps it was connected to wherever his orb had disappeared after the explosion.

“Keep the sacrifice still.”

Solas snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of Corypheus’s voice.  _Impossible._

“Someone help me!” A female voice cried.

“That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” Cassandra exclaimed.

Ah. The Fade was playing the memories of what had happened. Interesting.

As Ayla drew near the rift, the mark began to react again and the voices became accompanied by visions. The Divine, suspended, repeating her cry for help and Corypheus, a smokey shadow. What magic allowed the Divine to be rendered so clearly but maintained Corypheus’s anonymity?

“What’s going on here?” Ayla’s disembodied voice came.

“That was your voice!” Cassandra said with surprise, “Most Holy called out to you. But…”

“Run while you can!” The Divine said.

“We have an intruder.” The hazy shadow of Corypheus turned on the projection of Ayla as the memory played out before them, “Kill her. Now!”

The memory ended.

“You were there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was the vision true? What are we seeing?” Cassandra turned on Ayla, relentless with her interrogation.

“I - I still don’t remember!” Ayla seemed to be as truly surprised as the rest of them. Perhaps that had something to do with Corypheus’s shadowy form? Had he laid some sort of memory spell on her? At least he knew for sure now that Ayla bearing the mark had not been Corypheus’s intention.

Cassandra frowned, dissatisfied with Ayla’s answer. Solas took pity on her.

“Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place.” He hoped the explanation would satisfy the Seeker, or at least get her to back off a little, “The rift is not sealed, but it closed…albeit temporarily. I believe with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“That means demons! Stand ready!” Cassandra rallied the Inquisition soldiers. A call to action was perhaps as good as an answer to the Seeker. Archers and swordsmen got into position at the Seeker’s command.

Ayla steadied herself in front of the closed rift. She turned to Cassandra, who nodded, sword at the ready. Then she looked to Solas, again surprising him. He gave her a reassuring nod. Ayla raised her hand to the rift, the magic latching on to the closure and snapping it open.

A pride demon spilled forth from the newly opened rift. It was almost to be expected that pride would be attracted to Corypheus’s manipulations on this place. Solas would have laughed if he wasn’t busy trying to fight the demon. Solas versus pride. Fate was clearly trying to develop a sense of humor.

The fight was not an easy one, and it took all the assembled forces to put the demon down. But the battle was won.

“Do it!” Cassandra yelled at Ayla.

Ayla raised the mark, connecting it to the rift. This time the frequencies took much longer to harmonize. Solas felt the magical tension crackling across his skin, making the air go thick in the basin created by the explosion. Ayla cried out, bracing the hand that bore the mark in place. Pain was etched into her features as she struggled against herself to keep the mark on the rift. This could kill her, but it would be worth it to close the Breach. He had to convince himself of that. The rift vibrated along its connection to the Breach, trying to pull it closed as well. The magical frequencies thrummed discordant, and Solas felt his heart sink. Ayla could sacrifice herself to the Breach and it still might not be enough.

There was a snap and the connection was broken. The rift sealed, sending a surge of power towards the Breach. Green light flashed in the sky. The Breach was closed, but not sealed. Solas hurried to where Ayla lay crumpled on the ground, kneeling beside her.

“Is she…?” Varric approached.

“No. She lives still.” Solas said, “But I do not think a second attempt is advisable.”

“Then what do we do now?” Cassandra took up a spot nearby, looking uncomfortable and unsure of what to do with herself as Solas tended to Ayla’s unconscious form.

“Simply put, we need more power.” Solas answered.

“And to let her rest.” Varric added, “She did just save our collective asses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost used Cassandra as the POV character for this chapter.
> 
> Nehn: From the Project Elvhen, meaning Joy. Ayla is teasing Solas about being named Pride. Or at least asking some very good questions about his parents intentions naming him something like that. (I lean more towards Solas picking out his name for himself, but Ayla wouldn’t think that based on the information currently available to her)
> 
> I substituted in Spades for Diamondback. I know Blackwall says he taught Solas how to play, but I also think Solas is most likely Inquisition member to be a card shark. Followed by Josie of course.
> 
> I’m not sure if I’ll be doing another chapter that’s basically a novelization of Inquisition, but given the point of creating Ayla in the first place is seeing how Solas reacted I felt it was important to write out their first meeting. I’m also not sure how interesting this is to read.
> 
> Much of the dialogue ended up being direct quotes from the game. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
> 
> I’m not sure about a lot. Nevertheless here we are.
> 
> This chapter also got a little out of hand length-wise. I hope Cassandra’s enduring grunts make up for it.


	5. Thy Fates open their hands - Shakespeare, 12th Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The motivations for staying with the Inquisition for our heroes gathered thus far are examined as they prepare for their first official mission. Also some important questions about the Chantry building in Haven are raised.

The second time Ayla woke up in Haven went much better than the first. For one, she was in a bed. For two, there were fewer swords pointed at her.

Alya took slow stock of her situation. Toes, knees, fingers, arms, and head all seemed to be alright. Aside from feeling like she’d just been run over by a battalion of chevaliers riding roughshod. Cautiously, she sat up.

There was a gasp. It took Ayla a moment to realize it didn’t come from her. Her head was not appreciative of the new elevation at  _all_. It was pounding it’s dissent at having been moved away from the soft pillow. If this was the way her head was going to behave, the Chantry could have it.

“I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” A small elf woman was half crouched, backing away from Alya like she’d become an abomination.

“I’m still half hoping I’m not.” Ayla joked as she gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, trying to steel herself against the inevitability of standing up. Her body was already warning her it was not going to be pleasant.

“I beg your forgiveness,” the elf woman said as she collapsed to the floor, prostrating herself before Ayla, “And your blessing. I am but a humble servant, my lady.”

Well this was awkward.

“I…aaah” Ayla searched for words, “You must have me confused with someone else?”

“They say you saved us, the Breach stopped growing. Just like the mark on your hand.” the elf woman was refusing to make eye contact, staring hard at the floor, “It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.”

“Okay, so maybe you don’t have me confused with someone else.” Alya flexed her hand as the mark flared like it knew it was being talked about. The electric sting she had first felt from the mark was still there, but dulled, like it was coming from further away, “Could you please, maybe stand up?”

“The Breach is still in the sky, but they say the danger is over.” the woman stood, but was cringing backwards. Not an improvement, “I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve awakened. She said ‘At once’.”

Ayla relaxed, clearly the woman’s odd behavior could be attributed to getting orders directly from Cassandra. The Seeker had a way of adding ‘Or Else.’ to everything she said without actually saying it.

“It’s alright,” Ayla smiled at the elf and moved towards her, “Where is Lady Cassandra?”

“In the Chantry. With the Lord Chancellor,” the elf scrambled for the door before adding: “‘At once’ she said.”

“Well, that could have gone better.” Ayla said to an empty room. She poked around, looking for her shoes and the jacket Cassandra had given her. She found her shoes under the bed and the coat was hanging on the back of the door. The heavy felt was warm and smelled of hay, she loved it even if it was big enough for two of her. It felt safe. She pulled up the rolled sleeves to free her hands enough to tie the belt snug around her hips. She sighed. Ayla couldn’t procrastinate seeing Cassandra much longer. The Seeker had probably been notified already.

Ayla wanted to meet her fate under her own power rather than be hauled all the way to Orlais by Cassandra. She dragged her feet all the way to the door and took another deep breath, trying to consciously enjoy the last moments of freedom she had. One more sigh.

“Okay.” Ayla told herself opening the door. There was a line of soldiers all the way from the door to the Chantry. Her nerve shook, but she still took her first step out into the snow. They saluted.

“Oh-kay?” She repeated under her breath. If the soldiers were there to ensure she didn’t start a riot on the way to the Chantry, they wouldn’t be saluting, would they? Ayla began walking down the corridor the soldiers marked out. Then the murmurs started.

“That’s her!”

“They say Andraste protected her in the Fade.”

“She stopped the hole in the sky from getting worse!”

“She’s the Herald of Andraste!”

“Maker bless us.”

Ayla walked faster, resisting the urge to run all the way to the Chantry. Some of the people she passed  _bowed_.  _To her_. This was unsettling. She was pretty sure these were the same people who had been staring daggers at her on her way out of Haven. She knew crowds. She spent her life reading crowds, playing to crowds, trying win the coin out of the pockets of crowds. Crowds do not do an about face like this. Not without a sufficient amount of alcohol. This was dangerous. Every instinct she had honed being a performer told her so. She was shaking by the time she reached the Chantry and trying not to show it.

It was a relief entering the old stone building, getting away from the eyes of people who had gone way past admirers. Ayla waited to adjust to the candlelight. It was odd that the building had no windows. A muffled argument filled the dim sanctuary. Ayla only had to follow the sound of angry voices to find Cassandra.

Two templars stood guard over a door in the back of Chantry. The relief she felt a moment ago washed away as fear froze her legs. They noticed her and opened the door to the room beyond. Ayla squeezed her lips into a thin line, pushing her fear down deep, and marched forward. Val Royeaux awaited.

“Chain her. I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.” Roderick’s reedy voice greeted Ayla as soon as she entered the room. At least someone was consistent. The templars looked to Cassandra, unsure.

“Disregard that, and leave us.” Cassandra answered their looks. The sound of the door closing behind them was a thunderclap in Ayla’s ears. It was getting to be a bit much. The building mountain of sorrow that lead to this point. She could feel the crushing weight of it all in her chest.

 _Just a little further_ , she told herself.  _Just a little further_.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.” Roderick gave Cassandra a look of contempt like only a bureaucrat could.

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it.” Cassandra advanced on Roderick using her words like a sword.

“So…trial on hold due to continued threat of impending doom?” Ayla forced a smile.

Cassandra grunted.

“Do you find this humorous?” Roderick spat, “Hardly an appropriate attitude for someone about to be executed for the murder of the Divine.”

“I did everything I could to close the Breach. I almost died. Only to survive to die somewhere else. I think now is the perfect time for gallows humor.” Ayla’s smile stayed fixed. She literally had nothing left to lose and she was finding a kind of bravery in that.

“Yet you live. A convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned.” Roderick’s nose wrinkled with distaste.

“Have a care, Chancellor. The Breach is not the only threat we face.” Cassandra warned.

“Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect.” Leliana came alongside Cassandra, flanking Roderick, “Perhaps they died with the others - or have allies who yet live.”

“ _I_  am a suspect?” Roderick sputtered.

“You,” Leliana let an insidious pause grow in the middle of her sentence, “…and many others.”

“Wait…am I  _not_  a suspect?” Ayla’s head was spinning. It was getting hard to accept fate when fate kept changing its mind.

“I heard the voice at the Temple.” Cassandra was steel wrapped in silk, “The Divine called to you for help.”

“So her survival, that  _thing_  on her hand - all coincidence?” Roderick scrambled, trying to recover the high ground.

“Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.” The hope that glowed in Cassandra’s eyes showed she  _meant_  that. Ayla felt nauseous. From condemned to miracle in less than five minutes.

“Some sort of instruction before tipping me tail over teakettle out of the Fade and into the angry arms of the waiting mob would have been nice.” Ayla went all in on black humor. She had already been headed in that direction, nice not to have at least one thing do a hard pivot that morning.

“We are all subject to the will of the Maker, whether we wish it or not.” There was something vulnerable about Cassandra when she spoke about faith like that. A perfect innocence that relaxed her entire face. Ayla considered that this might be more frightening than the grunts. Stony determination settled back into the Seeker’s features as she continued, “No matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“The Breach remains, and your mark is still our only hope of closing it.” Leliana fortified Cassandra’s position again. Now the target of their joint attack, Ayla was starting to have sympathy for Roderick.

“This is not for you to decide.” Roderick growled.

And there went that budding sympathy.

Cassandra slammed a book down on a table.

“Do you know what this is, Chancellor.” She wasn’t asking a question, “A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn. We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”

Roderick looked around the room and realized he was surrounded by nothing but enemies. Detestable, bureaucratic, and whiny? Perhaps. Stupid? No. Roderick gave the women one last disgusted look before accepting defeat and leaving. Ayla shifted on her feet and glanced nervously at Cassandra and Leliana. Normally when a man left the alienage like that, they came back with the city guard. Or templars. She was having trouble shaking the urge to make herself scarce. There was a reason elves who made speeches like Cassandra just did usually did so from the executioner’s platform. Ayla didn’t have the ears, but just the blood was enough for most humans.

“What exactly is this writ?” Ayla fingered the flaming eye on the cover of the book Cassandra had wielded at the Chancellor.

“This is the Divine’s directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.” Leliana answered.

“Chaos sounds accurate.” Ayla smiled, “But does it still have the authority of the Divine without the Divine?”

“Perhaps not.” Leliana admitted, “But I know one thing. We are here. We aren’t ready. We have no leader, not numbers, and now no Chantry support."

“But we have no choice: we must act now.” Cassandra said with certainty, “With you at our side.”

“In what capacity, exactly?” Ayla traced the lock on the book looking at Cassandra through her lashes.

“You can go, if you wish.” Leliana said. Ayla didn’t believe her.

“You should know that while many believe you the Herald of Andraste, some still blame you for the death of the Divine.” Cassandra added, “The Inquisition can protect you, but only if you are with us.”

Ayla dropped her eyes back to the book. A choice that wasn’t a choice. But this Inquisition. This organization born of the Chantry but now divorced from it, still powered by faith. She had seen that in the faces of the people outside and heard it in Cassandra’s words. Was this really any safer?

The burning eye on the cover of the book shone green from the mark on her hand. The flickering light giving life to the metal flames. 

Was it a sign or was she just looking for an answer too hard? Would it matter in the end?

And really, when it came down to it, where else did she have to go? The mark made her as dangerous to the alienage as a mage. And ‘Herald of Andraste’ wasn’t the kind of title that was going to be left behind.

Sooner or later it was going to get her in trouble, either with people like Roderick or people like Cassandra. The Chantry was everywhere. She sighed for what seemed the thousandth time that day. This wasn’t the fate she thought she’d be facing, but she could still do it under her own power.

“Who else is going to jab their glowing green hand at the sky in the hope that something good will happen?” Ayla smiled.

“Help us fix this, before it’s too late.” Cassandra offered her hand.

“Until the sky stops falling.” Ayla shook Cassandra’s hand.

“Josephine and Cullen need to be here, so we can decide how to proceed.” Leliana said as she left the room.

Awkward silence filled the space Leliana left. Ayla and Cassandra considered each other. The leather in the Seeker’s armor squeaking as she shifted uncomfortably.

“So…the Inquisition.” Ayla reached for a topic, “I wasn’t the best student Sister Clarice had, they started the Chantry, right?”

“They started the Templar Order.” Cassandra corrected her, “Although the templars have lost their way.”

“What chaos did they stand against? I can’t imagine the Breach being a common problem.” Ayla asked.

“After Andraste’s March on the Imperium, blood mages, abominations, and cults were everywhere. The Inquisition formed to protect people from these threats.”

“What do you mean when you say the templars have lost their way?”

“Too many look at templars with fear. They were always meant to be protectors, not oppressors.” Cassandra frowned, “If the Templars were fulfilling their duties with honor the mages would have never rebelled.”

“So you support the mages?” Ayla was somewhat surprised.

“I-” Cassandra’s frown deepened as she searched for words to express her thoughts, “I understand the reasons the mages rebelled. They should have waited for the Seekers to find a way to peacefully reform the Order.”

There was a lot Ayla had to say about that. Cassandra saw the problems with the templars from a place that was safe from their abuses. Ayla had seen the problems with the templars as one of the victims in the alienage. The stories Mary shared about some of the templars in the Circle were worse. When you’re being choked to death in an alley you don’t have time to wait for a peaceful resolution.

At the same time she’d just agreed to an uneasy alliance with Cassandra and the Inquisition. They could just as easily put her back in a cell until they needed the mark again. Ayla put on her best patron-winning attitude.

“How would you have reformed the Order?” She asked, tone neutral and pleasant.

“Root out the rotten elements, those that abuse their power. Put good people in their place.” Cassandra gripped the pommel of her sword.

“How would you determine who was abusing their power?”

“Have the Seekers investigate the Circles, one by one.” Cassandra answered as if this was obvious.

“Why not ask the mages?” Ayla cocked her head, “I would think they would have some insight into that.”

“Certainly their complaints would be part of the investigations.”

“But not enough to act on in their own merit?” Ayla’s curiosity was genuine, even though she knew the general answer to the question, she wondered if Cassandra had thought about it.

“If the Seekers acted on every mage complaint, there would be no Order.”

“Is that better or worse than a corrupt Order?”

Cassandra was quiet for a long time. Ayla began to worry she had pushed too far.

“Perhaps we should have taken the mage complaints more seriously.” Cassandra finally said, “Perhaps the first step in stopping the abuses is to ensure the mages are seen as people, not enemies.”

“That sounds like it would be a good starting place.” Ayla smiled at the Seeker.

Further conversation was interrupted by Leliana returning with a well dressed woman and a man in armor in tow. He had all the bearings of a templar, though only parts of his armor bore the flaming sword. Ayla found a way to position the table, Cassandra, and Leliana between herself and him.

“Ayla, may I introduce Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.” Leliana said.

“A pleasure.” The woman in gold nodded.

“Likewise.” Ayla curtsied.

“And this is Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.” Leliana continued the introductions.

“Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.” The Commander didn’t pull punches.

“They are lucky to have a Commander who cares for them.” Guilt dropped like a stone. Her decision to cut through the mountain path had cost lives. The weight of those deaths were hers now.

“Solas told us that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good.” Cassandra said.

Ayla pushed through her fear and guilt, setting it aside with the host of other problems she’d have to confront later. Now was not going to be the time. She needed to focus on what was being said.

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help.” Leliana added.

“I still disagree. The templars could serve just as well.” Cullen offered his opinion.

“We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark-” Cassandra argued back.

“Might destroy us all. Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so-” Cullen’s response was almost reflex. Ayla got the distinct impression this was not the first time they had had this argument.

“Pure speculation.” Leliana interjected.

“ _I_  was a templar. I know what they’re capable of.” Cullen tightened his grip on his pommel and fixed Leliana with a glare.

“Unfortunately,” Josephine broke in with unsinkable sunniness, “Neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition - and Ayla specifically.”

“Good to know they can come to a decision on something.” Ayla decided followed Josephine’s cheerful lead, “I take it, however, that’s left us in a bit of a lurch with the other two groups.”

“It limits our options. Approaching the mages or templars for help is currently out of the question.” Josephine expanded on the problem.

“And if I wasn’t with the Inquisition?” Ayla asked.

“Let’s be honest: they would have censured us no matter what.” Cullen had the distinct air of a man done with politics.

“And you not being here isn’t an option.” Cassandra agreed.

“There is something you can do.” Leliana said, “A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak with the Herald of Andraste.”

“By which I assume she means me?” Ayla tried to subtly dissuade the use of that title by distancing herself from it.

“She is not far, and knows those involved better than I.” Leliana nodded, “Her assistance could be invaluable.”

“She is willing to break rank with the Chantry on this?” Ayla asked.

“I understand that Mother Giselle is a reasonable sort.” Leliana said, “You will find her helping the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe.”

“Alright, I can try speaking with Mother Giselle if you think it will help.” Ayla agreed.

“In the meantime, let’s think of other options. I won’t leave this all to the Herald.” Cassandra finished.

So much for distancing herself from the title.

“If there’s nothing else I can help with, I should go make preparations for the trip.” Ayla gave a final curtsy to the assembled leadership as she excused herself.

“Of course.” Josephine nodded before consulting with Leliana on something.

Ayla was walking out of the Chantry when she heard hurried footsteps behind her.

“Herald.” Cassandra called.

“Please, Seeker Cassandra. Ayla is fine.”  She turned to smile at the much taller woman, “Is there something you need from me?”

“I thought it would be prudent if you visited Blacksmith Harritt for armor before you left.” Cassandra said, “There is still fighting between the mages and templars in the valley.”

“Oh! I…um…I’m not sure I can afford armor.” Ayla touched the pocket of her dress.

“Nonsense. You are a part of the Inquisition now. Entitled to the same armor as every new recruit.” Cassandra replied.

“Alright. I’ll speak to him before I go.” Ayla tried hard to keep the sadness out of her voice.

“Leliana had this for you.” Cassandra offered a purse.

“Ah. Please tell Leliana thank you for me.” There was a familiar clink of coin as Ayla took the purse.

Cassandra nodded and reluctantly headed back to the the room in the rear of the Chantry. Already the angry voices of Leliana and Cullen were permeating the sacred space. Hunger rumbled in Ayla’s stomach. It was a relief - here was a problem she knew how to solve.

The music and laughter spilling out of the Singing Maiden was comforting, almost like home. She felt giddy and excited walking into the tavern. That changed when the room quieted. Half the patrons were staring at her. Was there no end to this?

The bard struck up a song that filled the growing silence. Ayla felt nothing but gratitude towards the musician. She smiled and waved her thanks, the bard nodded. Ayla approached the counter.

“A bowl of what’s bubbling and a mug of what’s on tap, please.” Ayla drew coppers from Leliana’s purse.

“I’ll not have the Herald of Andraste spending coin in my tavern,” the woman said, sliding a bowl and a mug across the counter, “It’s on the house.”

“I…” Ayla was torn between knowing the value of a free meal and wanting to contest the title. Her upbringing won out, “Thank you.”

She tried not to scurry off in embarrassment, taking purposeful steps toward a table with an open seat.

“Mind if I sit here?” She asked the table.

“Herald!” one of the men seated at the table exclaimed, “Of course not.”

“Thank you.” Ayla sat down - and they stood up finding new seats.

“That’s not what I-” Ayla sighed. It was apparently pointless. If it wasn’t for the threat of execution she almost preferred prisoner to Herald. She looked glumly at her stew and began eating.

“Mind if I join you?” The face of a familiar dwarf climbed into view as Varric settled himself into the seat across from her.

“Varric!” Ayla grinned, glad to finally have company, “Please do. Everyone else seems to think I’ve caught the blight.”

“More like a case of most holy.” Varric cocked a smile, “How’re you holding up? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

“Well, it’s not my first choice, but I  _think_  it’s better than having them call for my head on a pike.” Ayla shrugged, but then her smile melted, “Honestly though, I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what they want from me. I think I’d run for the hills if I wasn’t so scared Cassandra would just drag me back.”

“The Seeker does have a penchant for dragging people around.” Varric laughed.

“Not the best plan anyways. I’m being sent out to the hills anyways. First place she’ll look if I don’t come back.” Ayla took a spoonful of her stew.

“Do they have a plan to plug that hole still in the sky?” Varric sipped his ale.

“Kind of.” Ayla was aware she was being pumped for information, but Varric was the least intimidating person who wasn’t intimidated by her - or rather the mark. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d been sworn to secrecy, “Leliana found a Mother in the Hinterlands willing to talk to us. Well, talk to the Herald of Andraste, to be accurate. They’re hoping it’ll give them an in with the Chantry. Which in turn will give them an in with the mages. Or the templars. There’s some discussion about who the Inquisition should align with.”

“And by ‘discussion’ you mean circular arguments and barely controlled tempers.” Varric interpreted.

“They’re really very good at not coming to a decision. They should sell tickets.”

“Cassandra would lose it _completely_. I’d buy one.” Varric laughed, “What’d you say?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t have an opinion?”

“In a room with nobility, seekers, nightingales, and the commander of the Inquisition’s army?” Alya exhaled, “I’m just the daughter of a whore from the Denerim alienage. How much does my opinion count for in a company like that?”

“A lot. Someone’s got to keep their feet on the ground.” Varric took another drink, “Your mother was a whore?”

“No, my da.” Ayla shook her head, “And I’m not sure what kind of opinion I ought to have. Even if they did bother to ask. I don’t know enough about politics or military strategy to be making these calls that decide who lives and dies.”

“So what would you do if Cassandra wasn’t glowering you into submission then?” Varric obscured his face with his mug.

Ayla paused her meal to give the question her full attention. It had been one that was niggling at her from the sidelines while she dealt with problems at hand.

“Leave, I think.” She finally said, “But I’m not sure where I’d go. My family’s gone, and with this mark on my hand I’m dangerous company so I don’t feel right going back home. Find somewhere I belonged, I guess.”

“What is preventing you from belonging here?” Solas had appeared at the table bearing his own dinner, “If I may ask.”

“You mean besides you and Varric being the only people willing to sit at the table with the ‘Herald of Andraste’?” Ayla scooted over to make room for him.

“You are not pleased with the title.” Solas observed, sitting next to Ayla.

“It’s dangerous.” Ayla looked down at her bowl and jabbed at an errant potato.

“You don’t think you were sent by the Maker?” Varric lowered his mug.

“There was no booming voice from the Fade that told me to go forth and slay demons, if that’s what you mean.” Ayla took another bite, “Not that I remember anyways. And even if there was I’d rather let the historians figure it out. After I’ve died. Preferably of old age. Which is not usually the fate of prophets.”

“You would prefer longevity, then.” Solas raised his brow.

“Yes? No. Maybe. Depends on the details.” Ayla shrugged, “The problem with religious icons is that when people follow them, they stop asking questions. Which means if I’m the icon they decide to start blindly following, I have to start asking the questions and finding the answers for them. That’s a lot to ask of some woman who just happened to fall out of a hole in the sky with a glowing hand.”

Solas chuckled.

“That’s…one way to put it.” Varric said.

“Sorry.” Ayla realized she’d been babbling, “I haven’t had much chance to think about everything that’s happened in the last few hours. Days. Weeks. Month.”

“In their eyes you are the Herald.” Solas began eating his stew, “Regardless of your feelings on the matter.”

“I know.” Ayla sighed, defeated, “I find that more frightening than the Breach.”

“Not a typical hierarchy of fears.” Solas commented.

“Being handed sudden and complete responsibility for people’s lives all while having every minute detail of your own scrutinized? I’ve already been denounced by the Chantry and all I’ve done so far is sleep a lot…but I admit it wasn’t something I worried about until it happened. And with how many people died up on that mountain?” Ayla took a swig of her ale, “I don’t think it’s something I get to stop worrying about just because it’d be easier.”

“A lot of good men and women didn’t make it out of there.” Varric nodded, “For days we’d been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it. ‘Bad for morale’ would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

“Herald may not be a title you like, but the posturing is necessary.” Solas said.

“Necessary for what?” Ayla asked.

“The mages or the templars will not aid the Inquisition without reason.” Solas explained, “The Herald of Andraste lends legitimacy to the cause. It gives courage to the soldier who must look into the face of a demon and charge. Every great war has it’s heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

“In that case, you might want to reconsider running.” Varric was shaking his head, “I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

“Hopefully a glowing hand will do.” Ayla’s smile was grim, “If nothing else, I would at least like to close the Breach.”

“I will stay, then. At least until the Breach is closed.” Solas said.

“Was that in question, Chuckles?” Varric raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.

“I am an apostate mage, surrounded by Chantry forces.” Solas said with some force, “Unlike Ayla, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

“We wouldn’t even have the first idea of how to close the rifts, or the Breach without your help.” Ayla frowned, “Without your insights, I’d still be slowly dying from the mark in the dungeon. There’s no way I’d let them use that against you.”

“How would you stop them?” Solas seemed amused.

“If I’m posturing as the Herald of Andraste, I’m sure I could come up with something.” Alya gave him a wry smirk.

“Thank you.” Solas’s surprise seemed genuine.

“What about you Varric? Why are you sticking around?” Ayla turned to the dwarf.

“I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this… Thousands of people died on that mountain. Even I can’t walk away and just leave that to sort itself out.” Varric shrugged.

“So, if we’re all staying until the Breach is closed, would you want to go on this trip to the Hinterlands to meet Mother Giselle with me?” Ayla ventured.

“Is Cassandra going?” Varric asked.

“I think so, is that a deal breaker?” Ayla replied.

“Not exactly, just curious why you thought asking the two people most likely to annoy a Seeker on a journey…with the Seeker.” Varric chuckled.

“I guess I was thinking more about the only two people who’d eat dinner with me.” Ayla grimaced, “But I’ll understand if you don’t want to go.”

“I will accompany you.” Solas said.

“In that case, I wouldn’t miss it.” Varric grinned, “You can count me in too.”

“Great! I’m sure Cassandra will be thrilled to hear it.” Ayla giggled.

After the meal, Ayla felt much better. It had been good to spend some time not talking about serious things. Or at least not talk about the serious things in a somber and important way. And it had helped a lot to talk things through with Solas and Varric. At least she knew what she was doing here now. If she could just keep dealing with everything, one at a time, it would be okay.

Cassandra was probably right about the armor. She might feel protected by every stitch mamae and Mary made, but it was unlikely they would stop arrows. Or spells. Or whatever else they’d encounter in the Hinterlands.

She made her way to the blacksmith outside the walls of Haven, doing her best to ignore the whispers and agape stares. The din of soldiers’ practices swords clashing rang over the field.

“Master Harritt?” Ayla asked at the little smithy.

“Aye.” A man who’s mustache preceded his face greeted her, “What can I do for you?”

“Seeker Cassandra said I should speak to you about getting armor?”

“You’re the Herald of Andraste everyone’s talking about.” Harritt said.

“Ayla might be less of a mouthful” She smiled.

“Probably.” Harritt was looking her up and down, “I got something that might fit. You got pants?”

“Ah, no. You’re pretty much looking at everything I own.”

“Gonna need a good belt then.” Harritt nodded, “I’m a smith, not a tailor.”

“Do I need pants?”

“You’ll want ‘em for the greaves.” Harritt crossed his arms.

“Then do you have a good belt?”

“We can probably punch some extra holes to make one work.” He stroked his mustache, “Yeah. I think we can kit you out. Not gonna be pretty.”

“I don’t need pretty if it works.”

“That I can promise. We don’t do fancy work here, but it’ll keep you breathing.” Harritt walked off and started collecting armor pieces from around the smithy, depositing a pile in Ayla’s arms, “You can use my cabin just there to put it on so we can see what we’re working with.”

“Thank you.” Ayla headed to the building he had indicated. She put down the pile and started laying out the pieces. Sliding off the jacket, Ayla started with the mud-brown patchwork of fabric that were the pants. They were too big. Looking around, Ayla found a length of rope to keep them up for now. Next came the thick woolen tunic that might have once been red, but had faded to a non-color. A few sleeve rolls and she figured it to would be fine. Then came the breast plate, it took her a few more minutes to figure out the straps, but it seemed serviceable, same for the greaves and vambraces. Over it all went a padded oilcloth jacket.

Ayla reverently folded her dress. She picked hair and dirt off of it, smoothing the embroidery gently with her fingers. She ran her hands softly over the pocket. There was an acorn embroidered there by her mamae, next to a green blob that was supposed to be an oak leaf done by Mary when she was practicing. Grief clawed at the back of her throat and tears welled up in her eyes. She fought the sadness back until she couldn’t anymore and sunk to the floor, silent sobs shaking her body. Hugging her legs to herself she pressed her knees into her eyes until the tears finally stopped. Everything seemed quieter after. She stood and straightened her clothes, wiping furiously at her tears. Deep breath and a smile, and she went back outside to see Harritt.  _Just a little bit further._

“Everything fit alright?” The blacksmith asked.

“I think so, it took me a bit to figure out the breastplate straps.” Ayla nodded.

“You did fine.” Harritt adjusted one of the straps, “You find a belt?”

“No, borrowed some of your rope.”

“That’ll do.” He gave a final tug at one of the vambraces, “I feel alright sending you out in that.”

“So long as it’s got your seal of approval.” Ayla smirked, “Not like I’ll have a chance to come back and complain if it doesn’t hold up.”

“We do good work here.” Harritt frowned.

“It was a joke.” Ayla stopped smiling, “I don’t doubt your craftsmanship.”

“We keep the soldiers alive. And in one piece.”

“It’s a valuable service, and an important job that I can see you take seriously. I shouldn’t have made light, I’m sorry.” Ayla nodded to him.

“At least someone around here recognizes that.” Harritt crossed his arms again, “We’ll be here if you need anything else.”

“Thank you.” Ayla bobbed and left. She wondered what she should do with her dress. She couldn’t wear it, and she didn’t want to leave it behind. Anything could happen to it, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to deal with returning and finding it used for bandages…or worse, rags. Which left bringing it with. That felt right. But she’d need a pack to put it in. Perhaps the requisitions officer.

There were a few other stops, supplies, information, trading favors. The Breach might be closed soon, or it could take years. If she was going to survive, she needed a support network.

It was Cassandra who finally came and collected her. Varric and Solas were waiting at the gates, an old nag sparingly loaded with gear pawing at the snow. This, whatever else it ended up being, would be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously though, why doesn’t the Haven Chantry have any windows?
> 
> You have no idea how glad I am to finally get out of Haven. I should probably skip around in time more. We all know these characters and their motivations. But no. I crave the deepening/strengthening of their relationships. Fight me, Helen.


	6. Not all fires burn the same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road to Redcliffe, the companions learn a little more about each other.

“Ayla.”

The sound of her name pierced through the veils of sleep and drew Ayla’s consciousness into the waking world. She groaned and tried to bury her face into mamae’s side.

“Shem’ena’vun, mamae.” Ayla whined.

“Melava ena’sal dhea.” A male voice replied.

That woke Ayla faster than a bucket of ice. She was not, as her sleep-addled brain had supposed, back home sharing a cot with her mamae. Instead she was in a tent. Somewhere in Ferelden. Snuggling Cassandra.

Varric was smiling like a man who just learned he could shit gold. Solas’s normally neutral demeanor was graced with the faintest hint of an amused smile. Cassandra looked supremely awkward.

“Ah! Sorry!” Ayla tried to disentangle herself from Cassandra, getting more flustered as blankets knotted around her legs, “I’m used to sharing a bed.”

“It is alright.” Cassandra replied, her voice stiff and her cheeks flush. As soon as Ayla had freed herself, Cassandra couldn’t get out of the tent fast enough.

“I think you made her uncomfortable.” Varric joked.

“I made _myself_ uncomfortable.” Ayla patted her cheeks, trying to get the blushing to die down.

“On the contrary.” Solas was smirking, “You both looked quite comfortable.”

“I’m going to go see if Cassandra needs help.” Ayla felt her ears burning as she crawled out of the tent.

Cassandra was sitting by the fire ring, poking last night’s coals and coaxing them back into life. When the fire was roaring merrily, Ayla tucked two stones near the flames.

“It occurs to me that I do not know much about you before Haven.” Cassandra broke the silence, “Were you married?”

“What? No!” Ayla’s face contorted with confusion, “What makes you think that?”

“You said you were used to sharing a bed?” Cassandra was equally confused as she warmed honeycakes over the flames. The smell of toasting bread drew Solas and Varric from the tent and they took up their previous night’s positions at the fire.

“With my mamae. We only had the one.” Ayla clarified.

“You speak an odd mixture of elvhen and trade tongue. One might almost suspect you of being Dalish.” Solas showed only passing interest.

“My mamae is Dalish...or was? I’m not sure if you can be Dalish without a clan.” Ayla took off her boots and paused, her face falling with sudden realization, “Was. Mamae was Dalish.”

“You said something about being from the alienage earlier.” Varric said, a little rushed, trying to change the subject, “Does that make you…?”

“Elf-blooded, you can say it.” Ayla finished for him, “It’s not something I’m ashamed of.”

“Spoon. On account of your ears.” Varric cracked a smirk.

“Right! I used to be teased when I was little: ‘spoon-ear’. I came home crying one afternoon because the other kids in the alienage wouldn’t play with me. My da took me in his lap and told me I should own it, then no one could make fun of me for it.” Ayla smiled at the memory, “So I started introducing myself as Spoon and it just stuck.”

“Was it successful?” Cassandra asked.

“Was what successful?” Ayla retrieved her rocks from the fire and dropped them into her boots.

“Owning it.” Cassandra said.

“Yes! And now I’m champion of a good game of King Maric and the puppet king.” Ayla nodded.

“That’s a Ferelden thing if I ever heard one.” Varric laughed.

“I’m sure children running around hitting each other with sticks is fairly common everywhere.” Ayla shrugged, smiling, “We’re just better with names.”

“Bartrand used to call it Dwarves and Darkspawn.” Varric replied, “For some reason, I was always darkspawn. And covered in bruises.”

“I’m guessing...older brother?” Ayla ventured.

“You guessed right. Biggest pain in my ass there ever was.” Varric reached for a honeycake.

“They are not done.” Cassandra slapped his hand away.

“Alright, alright.” Varric held up his hands like he was surrendering, “I won’t touch your honeycakes.”

“I am sorry.” Cassandra sheepishly apologized, “They simply taste better if the outside is crisped first. You may eat yours now if you wish.”

“Far be it from me to second guess a lady who seems to know her honeycake.” Varric shook his head, amused.

“I was unaware that there were Dalish in the alienages.” Solas interjected.

“I think mamae might have been the only one.” Ayla answered, “Do you know a lot about the Dalish?”

“I have wandered many roads in my time, and crossed paths with them on more than one occasion.” Solas said.

“Crossed paths?” Ayla was curious.

“I offered to share knowledge only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.” Solas frowned.

“You’d get on well with my friend, Sammen.” Ayla laughed, “He’s not fond of the Dalish either. But not all clans are so...prickly.”

“That has not been my experience.” Solas defended.

“Certainly there are many clans who still abide by the ‘shoot first, ask questions never’ philosophy.” Ayla conceded, “But there were many more clans that fought with the wardens during the Blight. A few of them have established ties with some of the more rural alienages.”

“There was a clan outside of Kirkwall for the longest time.” Varric added, “Suspicious folk, but charitable. Their keeper came into the alienage to help an elf-blooded dreamer.”

“That was the blood-mage’s clan, correct?” Cassandra removed the honeycakes from the fire and offered one to Varric.

“Merrill.” Varric corrected, taking the cake.

“I am surprised the Dalish would permit a blood-mage in their midst.” Solas took a cake of his own, “I would have thought that they would have forbidden blood magic, like most modern cultures.”

“Oh, they did. That’s how Merrill ended up with the Champion.” Varric wiped crumbs from his mouth.

“What happened to her?” Ayla asked, reaching for the last honeycake.

“Well,” Varric looked at Cassandra warily, “She’s busy keeping the elves out of the shit that went down in Kirkwall after the rebellion.”

“Relax, Varric.” Cassandra didn’t even look up from her honeycake, “I am committed to the Inquisition now. Merrill no longer concerns me.”

“Glad to hear it, Seeker.” Varric eased into a less tense position.

“Was blood magic more permitted in ancient cultures, then?” Ayla’s honeycake hovered in front of her mouth, her toes curled in the grass next to her boots. A sly grin stole across Solas’s face. Cassandra grunted.

“Perhaps we should steer clear of the topic, for the Seeker’s sake.” Solas said, the picture of humble agreeability.

“That would be preferable.” Cassandra clipped, dusting crumbs off her trousers and standing, “We should break camp.”

Ayla stuffed the rest of her honeycake into her mouth and dumped the rocks out of her boots and tucked her feet into the now warm shoes. Standing, she started helping Cassandra breaking down the campsite. Varric groaned as he stood up, beginning to pack up the various sundries. Solas took the job of tracking down the old nag from where she had wandered off to while she was grazing.

Back on the road, Varric was teasing Cassandra mercilessly. For her part, Cassandra grunted and walked faster. Ayla dropped back to walk beside Solas.

“I was wondering, what happened when you encountered the Dalish?” She asked him.

“I offered to help, to teach them what I know of Arlathan. While they pass on stories mangling details, I walk the Fade. I have seen things they have not.” Solas soured, “But they mocked the flat-ear. And his stories. And went back to their ruins.”

Ayla took in what he said, walking beside him in silent contemplation. Wondering what almost was.

“Why do you ask?” The bitterness melted from Solas’s voice as he moved past the memory.

“When mamae heard the templars had rebelled from the Chantry, she wanted to seek out a clan.” Ayla looked up from the road, “She thought they could help keep my sister safe from them. I guess I was just wondering what would have happened if we had found a clan before the templars found us.”

“You never mentioned you encountered templars on the way to Haven.” Solas observed.

“You never mentioned you tried to teach the Dalish elven history.” Ayla countered, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying, “What did you do after the clan rejected you?”

“After?”

“Did you go to the alienages? There are elves there too.”

“Why. What it would benefit a poor man in an Ferelden alienage to hear his ancestors strolled the lands like gods. It would only make him bitter. Or inspire him to take a foolish risk and get himself killed.”

“What?!” Splotches of anger blossomed on Ayla’s face. The sudden volume caused Cassandra and Varric to halt their own conversation, “You can just _decide_ how people will react?!”

“Perhaps I can.” Solas replied cooly.

“I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood. Does your magic give you some insight into the future?” Ayla’s nostrils flared, “Have you walked through the dreams of every man, woman, and child who laid their head to rest under the vhenadahl? Even if so, it’s clear you learned _nothing_ there. We _know_ . We _know_ that once our people did not live in servitude and squalor. That once there was Arlathan. That once there was Shartan. That once there was the Dales. But guess what? That knowledge does not put a roof over our heads or food in our stomachs. It doesn’t protect us when humans come knocking at our doors to take away our fathers. Our mothers. Our children. It is only us. That poor man who comforts his neighbor for the loss of their son. Who helps his elders patch their walls or fix their door. Who shares what little coin he earns with his fellows. You can look down your nose at him if you like, but _do not presume to know his mind._ ”

“I can see I was wrong. I should have gone to the alienages, inspiring a man to a foolish risk that gets him killed is preferable to allowing his history and who he is to crumble under mundane poverty.” Solas’s eyes narrowed as he looked down on Ayla. Her fisted hands clenched so tight her knuckles had turned white. She was shaking, anger flashing in her eyes as she stared up at him.

“If that is what you truly believe, the only bitter fool here is you.” Ayla managed between clenched teeth before storming off.

“You really have a way with people, Chuckles.” Varric said as he watched Ayla thunder down the road ahead of the group, “Never saw a woman want to slap a man so much and not actually hit him. I think she could’ve knocked you clear into Orlais.”

“You were unkind, Solas.” Cassandra’s voice was harder than normal.

“The truth is rarely ever kind, Seeker.” Solas replied.

“Your truth certainly isn’t.” Varric said, hurrying after Ayla.

“We should keep moving.” Cassandra turned and continued walking, leaving Solas alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The elvhen comes from Project Elvhen. I made the phrases up myself, so it's probably all wrong, but here's the gist of what they say anyways:  
> Shem’ena’vun - The sun rises too early  
> Melava ena’sal dhea - Time to meet the day
> 
> The opening scene of Ayla snuggling Cassandra in her sleep was one of the earliest ones I came up with. I am so stoked to finally be able to share it.
> 
> Thanks to Bearly_Tolerable for reading the rough for this chapter and letting me ask their opinions on things.


	7. Not for Ourselves Alone are We Born - Cicero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The companions make it to the Hinterlands and make contact with Mother Giselle. Things do not go well for Ayla and Solas develops a permanent tension headache. It's his own fault. No one should feel sorry for him.

They heard the fighting before they saw it. Leliana’s scouts had warned them that the war between the templars and mages dominated the Hinterlands. As the companions crested the hill leading down to the Crossroads the battle raged on before them with the refugees scrambling to get out of the middle.

“People are dying, Seeker.” Varric was already fingering Bianca’s trigger.

“I can see that.” Cassandra’s face was as hard as the steel of her drawn blade.

“Who do we help?” Varric asked.

“The templars. Try to keep the mages from casting spells.” Cassandra answered.

“Are the mages unworthy of the Inquisition’s support?” Solas kept his voice calm even though he found himself resistant to Cassandra’s decision.

“I...suppose they are not.” Cassandra faltered, “Perhaps I spoke out of habit.”

“So the mages then?” Varric looked up from Bianca seeking clarification.

“It would make things difficult if the Inquisition decides to seek help from the templars closing the Breach.” Cassandra’s lips pressed into a thin line of annoyance.

“Assisting the templars would make it difficult to seek help from the mages.” Solas countered.

“Varric, what do you think?” Cassandra asked.

“You wanna know what I think? I think the longer we take deciding here, the more people are dead down there.” Varric said, frowning.

“We are _trying_ to do something about that.” Cassandra bit back, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“By asking me questions?” Varric returned, “How does that help anyone?”

“Stop.” The order came as Cassandra was winding up for a response. She and Varric dropped their argument before it really got going. They turned to look at Ayla, her face was a mask. Her eyes were fixed on the horror unfolding below them.

“We side with the refugees.” Ayla unslung her bow and nocked an arrow. She was detached from her voice, it almost sounded like she had been made tranquil but for the firmness in it. Solas’s brow furrowed.

“Works for me.” Varric pulled a lever, triggering the unmistakable sound of an arrow rattling into the unusual barrel his crossbow sported. He found a vantage point and started taking shots at the combatants down below, mage and templar alike. At times, Varric was as much of a weapon as Bianca, willing to be used and aimed by someone else.

Ayla maneuvered to as spot further to the side so that they could cover more of the battlefield. Solas chose to position himself nearby. She was, after all, the reason he was here. Even if she still wasn’t talking to him.

His proximity allowed him to observe her technique. It had changed since they had battled demons together. Every single arrow she fired struck ground, routing mages, templars, and even a few refugees into new directions. It was a soft hearted, but unsustainable strategy. Yet it underlined who Ayla was. No trained soldier like Cassandra, nor a hardened rogue like Varric. She was a flower seller from the streets of Denerim. Someone who, under normal circumstances, had no place on the battlefield. Solas felt the familiar pang of guilt lance through his chest. It was an unwelcome realization.

Eventually the inevitable happened, as it always does. Ayla fell a templar. They had been attacking an old woman, leg in a splint and leaning on a walking stick as she had tried to hobble away from the battle. In a moment the templar went from boldly attacking the refugee to a crumpled pile of meat and armor, an arrow buried up to it’s fletching in his eye. Ayla released a single, choked sob, so quiet Solas doubted he would have heard it from any further away.

It did not stop her. Nor did it deter her. Ayla made the same hard decision to end a life again when a mage sapping Cassandra’s energy got an arrow through their heart. This time Ayla softly whimpered. Solas couldn't help but admire Ayla's choice to keep fighting, even as she felt the full weight of what that entailed. It was a special kind of bravery he had not expected to find still in this world.

The fighting died out, the remnants of the mages and templars running off. The refugees of the crossroads set about to right their camp with the weariness of people that had done so many times before. Solas leaned against his staff watching Ayla retrieve her arrows as they waited for Cassandra and Varric to rejoin them.

Her path was predictable. She started with the arrows furthest away from the templar, only hesitantly creeping nearer as needed. Solas knew the arrow buried in the templar’s eye would never return to Ayla’s quiver. He had noted she had a tendency to avoid templars when she could, the population dynamics of Haven often made this impossible. Here, where the corpse could not demand her attention, and with no doubt the guilt of the templar’s death weighing heavy on her heart, there was no need and no reason for her to face this templar.

But she did.

Ayla knelt on the ground by the templar. With as much reverence as possible, she removed the arrow from his eye and returned it to her quiver. Shaking hands closed the templar’s lids for the last time. She leaned close and was whispering. To the templar? The Maker? The Dalish Creators? Solas crept closer to hear her.

 _hahren na melana sahlin_  
_emma ir abelas_  
_souver'inan isala hamin_  
_vhenan him dor'felas_ _  
_ in uthenera na revas

 _vir sulahn'nehn_  
_vir dirthera_  
_vir samahl la numin_ _  
_ vir lath sa'vunin

He could just barely make out the tune, but the song was old. He had sung it himself. And now, countless years later, it was being sung by an elf-blood to a human templar upon their death.

“That song, it is the one the Dalish sing to those who have passed on, is it not?” Solas asked.

“Yes.” Ayla replied, not looking at him.

“Yet you sing it to a templar. He is no member of your mother's clan, or family for that matter.”

“Correct.”

“Then why sing it to him?”

“He passed on.” Ayla stood and continued collecting her arrows. Clearly she still wasn’t speaking to him. It should not matter. Ayla’s opinions about alienages should not matter. That their time on the road had not calmed her anger at him for his observations on city elves should not matter.

But he was finding her particular methods of ignoring him more vexing than outright silence. Her replies always satisfied the question yet evaded conversation. Gone were her insightful queries and rapt attention to his answers, replaced by austere politeness and emotional distance. It should have made things easier. He should not miss it. He convinced himself that he did not.

Ayla had made it all the way over to the mage she had taken down and was repeating the same ritual she had with the templar. Whether because it was a mage or because it was the second time she had been confronted with someone she had killed, Ayla broke down. She was sobbing into the robes of the dead woman. Solas frowned.

“What’s wrong with Spoon?” Varric asked as he and Cassandra approached.

“I believe our Herald has just made her first kill.” Solas answered, resetting his face to neutral.

“Oh. Shit.” Varric was taken aback.

“How is that possible?” Cassandra’s brow knit in confusion, “I saw her on the battlefield at Haven. She is skilled with a bow.”

“Demons don’t leave bodies.” Varric replied, “And not every bow is a murder weapon. There are still decent people out there who use it as a tool to hunt.”

The trio stood in uncomfortable silence, digesting these new facts. Ayla’s crying had yet to abate.

“Someone should speak with her.” Solas observed, “I would offer, if I thought it would give her comfort.”

“Words do not come easily. I would not know how.” Cassandra looked to Varric.

“Oh no, Seeker. I’m no better at this than you are.” Varric held his hands up.

“But the way you write…” Cassandra started.

“You’ve read what I write. Hard people doing hard things.” Varric crossed his arms, “One of my books is _called_ Hard in Hightown. Badass one-liners aren’t going to help here.”

Cassandra opened her mouth like she was about to argue, but closed it again. They returned to their awkward silence. Each quietly hoping the situation would somehow resolve itself.

Their prayers were answered by a Revered Mother, who came to speak with Ayla. Whatever the Mother said seemed to be helping. All three companions visibly relaxed.

“Did I ever tell you how I hate to see humans cry?” Varric muttered.

“It is difficult to watch anyone cry.” Cassandra said.

“Yeah, but humans in particular turn into blubbery messes.” Varric teased, lightening the mood, “I think it has something to do with being so far away from the ground.”

“If your theory holds true, Qunari must be the most inelegant criers in all of Thedas.” Solas commented.

Varric snorted, barely containing his laughter.

“You know, I’ve never seen one of the big guys cry.” He said after recovering.

“Nor I.” Solas replied, “Although I now find myself curious as to what could cause such an event.”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Kirkwall was crawling with them for six years and I never once saw any of them shed a tear.” Varric shrugged, “Maybe they should have. It would have made them appear more relatable. Less scary monsters.”

“I don’t see how that would have helped.” Cassandra said.

“You wouldn’t, would you.” Varric said, “You go in for the same frightening stoney front. Less emotion, more intimidation.”

“I know you see me that way, Varric, but I am not always so harsh.” Cassandra frowned.

“If that’s true, Seeker, I have yet to see it.” Varric crossed his arms.

Cassandra grunted. Ayla was walking towards them, Revered Mother in tow. Cassandra stood a little straighter.

“This is Mother Giselle.” Ayla introduced the Revered Mother, “She is willing to go to Haven to help Leliana gather what clerics we can in Val Royeaux.”

“They need to see the Inquisition, and the Herald, to have doubt sewn into their accusations and condemnations.” Mother Giselle explained, “They will feel safe enough in Val Royeaux to show their faces and see for themselves if Chancellor Roderick’s reports have weight.”

Solas looked to Ayla, curious about her reaction. Behind Mother Giselle’s Chantry robes and acts of charity lay a shrewd political mind. A mind that seemed set not only to put the Inquisition forward as the solution to the problem currently facing Thedas, but to maneuver Ayla to be positioned as the Inquisition's head. Whether Mother Giselle intended Ayla as a true leader or a figurehead to be manipulated remained to be seen. Ayla, for her part, was either unaware or unbothered by Mother Giselle’s agenda.

“Until then, I'd like to stay here and help the refugees.” Ayla said.

“It would not be so terrible an idea.” Cassandra replied, “The last of the fighting between the mages and templars appears concentrated around Redcliffe. I would like to know why that is so.”

“The last gasps of a dying war, Seeker.” Varric said, “Their leadership and most of their armies were taken out in Haven. All you see here are poor sods too stupid to stop fighting when there’s no one left to give the order.”

“So what? They’ll just keep fighting until everyone’s dead just because there’s no one to tell them to stop?” Ayla’s face twisted in a blend of confusion and disgust.

“Two factions whose members have been shaped into weapons by the same Chantry they have both rejected in order to fight each other?” Solas felt the sneer creep into his voice and pushed it back down, “That does seem the likely outcome.”

“Whatever you may think of them, they’re still people, Solas.” Ayla fixed him with a glare so icy he swore he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck raising, “Maybe they just need an opportunity to remember that.”

“Let us hope you are right.” Solas acknowledged her point. They weren't people, not really, but someone like Ayla wouldn't know any better. Besides, how could so much anger be contained in such a small person? It seemed best to try and not vex her any further lest she summon rage demons with her intensity alone.

“We are all optimistic this can come to an end without further bloodshed.” Mother Giselle interjected, “But it will take a leader, which is all the more sorrow for the loss of Divine Justinia. I hope to see the Inquisition fill the role while the Chantry cannot.”

“The Inquisition was formed to do what must be done.” Cassandra said, relieved that the conversation was moving elsewhere.

“That is good to hear.” Mother Giselle smiled, “Corporal Vale is leading the efforts here. If you wish to help the refugees, you may choose to start there.”

“Thank you again, Mother.” Ayla politely nodded.

“I hope to see you again in Haven. We can continue our other discussion then.” Mother Giselle nodded by way of farewell to the companions as she made her way to introduce herself to the Inquisition scouts preparing the return caravan.

The conditions at the Crossroads camp steadily improved as the companions put their talents to use for the refugees. Solas couldn’t help but notice Ayla using the camp to avoid him further. She was off hunting with Varric, or searching caches with Cassandra, the only time he saw her was when she visited with the injured as he had been spending his time plying his own meager healing talents in the makeshift field hospital. Her visits seldom involved speaking to him.

He continued to try not caring. Which admittedly had been easier when Varric had been around for a hand of Diamondback, but Cassandra and Varric had left to deal with the bandits on the East road. Solas turned his attentions to procuring more information on the state of the Veil and observing modern society.

The people of the Crossroads were more communal than he had expected of a human-dominated society. They shared what they had and worked tirelessly to help each other keep their heads afloat. Even the divide between the humans and the elves was not so steep as he had expected to find. Perhaps what he had heard about Ferelden being more forward thinking than most of Thedas had been true. Admirable, but not truly much. Inequalities still existed likely driven by the brutish nature of humans brought on by their short life-spans. A trait now shared by the elves. His heart ached for the passing of the elvhen. There was nothing he could do for them now.

The Veil, on the other hand, was not currently beyond his help. It was stronger in the Hinterlands than it was in Haven. He could feel spots here, more anchored than the rest as the Fade shifted and warped under the influence of the Breach. His investigations in his dreams had lead him to the conclusion that something was working, however weakly, to strengthen the Veil. Whatever it was though, the spirits of the Fade could not recreate it in any form for study. It was logical that a device meant to keep the waking world and Fade separate would be difficult for the Fade to replicate. Logical but frustrating.

He had to find a way to excuse himself to search without rousing suspicion. Or being left behind whenever Ayla and the rest decided to return to Haven. His priority was still the anchor and retrieving his orb.

Solas let out a long, slow, sigh.

There must be some way approach the devices with Ayla that would procure her assistance.

“Solas?”

“Ayla.” Solas didn’t try to hide his surprise, “I was unaware we were back on speaking terms.”

“I…” She paused, a look of regret flashing across her face, “I need a favor.”

“From me?”

“One of the women has trouble breathing, her son used to make a potion that helps, but he’s apparently run off to join that cult we keep hearing about.”

“I am sorry, Ayla, but my skills do not extend further than the basics of healing.”

“No, I know that. You said that when Corporal Vale mentioned they needed a healer.”

“I was unaware you were listening.”

“Solas...please.” She wavered between exasperation and actual pleading, clearly whatever it was she was trying to get at was important to her.

“What is it you are asking?” He took pity and softened, opening his arms and relaxing his stance.

“I was hoping you would travel with me to find the son. His father said to ask for the potion. But with the cult...I don’t know enough about medicinal herbs to know if it would be the right potion. And they worship the rifts. At least according to rumor. I’ve got this mark that closes rifts...so…going by myself...didn’t seem...like a good idea...” She trailed off awkwardly.

“A wise conjecture.” He nodded.

“Then, you’ll help me?”

“I will help you. When did you plan to leave?”

“Now?”

“Give me a moment to gather a few things.”

“Of course.” Ayla relaxed, breathing a sigh of relief.


	8. The world perishes not from bandits and fires, but from hatred, hostility, and all these petty squabbles. - Chekhov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Cassandra deal with the East Road Bandits and some of the wider questions of Andraste, the Chantry, and how your story is told.

The clouds rolled in the sky over Varric’s head as he squinted at a spot on the horizon, lost in thought. Something about...arrows? Quiet. Quick. In a back alley. Guardsmen shouting, but the bow wasn’t hers…

“Varric, when was your first kill?” Cassandra’s sudden question took him from the mean streets of Kirkwall back to the, quite frankly, boring wilds of Ferelden.

“Why, Seeker? You writing a biography?” Varric gave his most engaging smirk.

“No, I was thinking about Ayla.” Her leather gloves squeaked as she reflexively gripped the handle of her blade, “I had not...considered her situation before I brought her into battle.”

“So you’re asking me?”

“I was simply trying to understand her feelings. But it has been so long since I…”

“Since the first time you took a person’s life.”

“I still remember. They were an apostate and a blood mage.” Cassandra frowned, “Involved in the cult that tried to murder Divine Beatrix.”

“Do you remember how you felt?”

“Angry.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised.” Varric pursed his lips and cocked a brow, “You’re always angry.”

Cassandra grunted.

“They were the ones who had killed Anthony.” She said after a pause.

“That was the business with the dragons, wasn’t it. The story of how you became the Right Hand.”

“You would call it a story.”

“That’s who I am, Seeker.” Varric idly pet Bianca with a finger, “A teller of stories.”

“It was a problem.” Cassandra frowned, “The right choice was obvious. I followed with action. Then I was followed with stories.”

“That’s why you’ve gotta tell your own story. Get ahead of it, before someone else starts telling it wrong.”

“Like your account of the Champion.”

“Exactly. It would have been a mess if I had let Hawke tell it.” Varric’s lips twitched up in an asymmetric smug smile.

“Would the Champion think you are telling their story wrong?” Cassandra’s tone still had the usual brusqueness, but it was tinged with curiosity. It was strange, and made her seem a bit vulnerable in that I-can-still-kick-in-all-your-teeth-without-breaking-a-sweat kind of way.

“Hawke?” Varric scratched his chin, eyeing the Seeker, “I think they like not having to tell the story themselves.  When you’re living your life as a roguish fugitive from Chantry law it helps to have a reputation that precedes you.”

“But what do I know.” He hastily added, “I haven’t seen them since they left Kirkwall.”

“So you’ve said.” Cassandra grunted.

They fell into silence for a time. Varric found himself being absorbed into the scenery. The sun was shining and the air was clear and full of nature sounds. The smell of manure from the nearby farms tickled his nose. That in itself was a strange novelty, coming from the city the idea of a ‘clean shit smell’ was bizarre, but here he was. In the country. The smell of fertilizer in the air. And people thought it was a good thing. It did smell cleaner, somehow, than that distinct odor of Darktown, or even the alienage, places in Kirkwall that sewage drained into and never out of. Both literally and metaphorically.

“How would you have told story of the attempted assassination of Divine Beatrix?” Cassandra interrupted his thoughts a second time. Varric looked up at the Seeker. He wondered if this was what she thought friendly conversation was. At least she wasn’t threatening him with anything sharp and pointy. That, at least, was an improvement.

“That depends, what do you want people to get from the story?” He asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Varric settled into a more comfortable position, “Stories can be told for a lot of reasons. To entertain, to teach, to warn, to make people fall in love, or think. What would you want people to do when they heard your story?”

“To not attempt to assassinate the Divine.” Cassandra’s lips pressed into a thin, wide line, “Although it might be too late for such tales.”

“I’m sure whomever the next Divine is would appreciate the effort.”

Cassandra grunted. Varric laughed.

“Alright, Seeker. Don’t get your pauldrons in a twist.” He shook his head, “I’ve only ever heard the bard tales. What’s your side of the story?”

“The blood mages plotted to kill the Divine and were stopped by the Seekers allied with a handful of mages.”

“And the parts about the templars?”

“I would have said that the templars were an honorable order. Undeserving of the shadows cast upon them by the actions of one man.” She frowned, “But in light of recent events, I...have been given doubts about all I believed to be true.”

“Haven’t we all.” He sighed, dragging his eyes to the hole in the sky that loomed like a least favorite aunt at the family dinner.

“You mock me.” Cassandra tensed, “I should not expect sympathy from doubters.”

“You think I don’t have faith, Seeker?” It was Varric's turn to frown.

“I-I thought with your opinions on the Chantry...and your association with Hawke and Anders…” Cassandra stammered.

“I have no faith in the Chantry, that’s true. But in Andraste? In the Maker?” Varric shook his head, “I’ll admit I’ve said my share of prayers.”

“But without the Chantry-”

“Without the Chantry you have a story free of greed and corruption. Without the Chantry, you’ve got a miracle.” He crossed his arms, “You’ve got something to try for. Something to hope to be someday. And even if you wake up waist deep in shit, you remember that you’ve got Andraste in your corner, rooting for you.”

“But the Chantry is the hands and voice of Andraste in the mortal realm.” Cassandra spoke her sentence reflexively. Something she had memorized, repeated, and always taken unexamined as fact.

“Is it?” He shook his head, “And the woman who march on Tevinter to free the slaves, in the company of mages and elves as equals. She would definitely be for in squabbling and politics that the Chantry has made famous.”

“Perhaps not.” Cassandra shifted, uncomfortable, “But perhaps…”

“Perhaps?”

“Perhaps that is why she sent us Ayla.”

“You think she’s really the Herald of Andraste?” Varric felt his eyebrows shoot up so fast he was worried they might fly off into the clouds.

“I am…” Cassandra faltered, “Unsure. But I cannot believe her appearance when we needed hope the most is coincidence.”

“You might have a point there. Time will tell.”

“And...the stories?” Cassandra asked.

“Of course.”

“Stories you tell, Varric?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll at least have one tall tale to share over drinks when this is all over.” He shrugged, “But I’m no Brother. I’m not sure I should be getting mixed up in this religious shit.”

“That might be the best argument for why you should.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Seeker.” Movement caught his eye, “I think we’ve finally got company.”

Bandits moved through the brush, almost undetectable, and completely unnoticed by the band of refugees that were making their way towards the crossroads. Just like recruit Belette had warned them. There was the soft whisper of metal and leather as Cassandra drew her sword beside him.

“What’s the plan, Seeker?” Varric cocked Bianca.

“Get their attention. Warn the refugees and distract the bandits so that I can get in amongst them.” Cassandra’s eyes were fixed on their target.

“I like everything about it except that _I’m_ the distraction.”

“Varric.” Cassandra warned.

“I know, I know. Better me than the refugees. Fine.” Varric nodded at Cassandra to indicate he was ready.

The Seeker stalked off like a cat. Cassandra may be stilted and awkward in most social situations, but on the battlefield? Pure poetry. He counted to three under his breath to give her a chance to get into position.

“Any blighters out there want a kiss from Bianca?” Varric yelled, standing up from where he’d been hiding in the brush.

The refugees froze and looked at him, confused. Varric fired off a shot into a clump of grasses hiding a bandit. There was a scream cut off by a wet thud. A few of the refugees looked to the grass, then back at him.

“You might want to think about running.” Varric answered their questioning stares before firing off a few more shots.

The bandits seemed to figure out what was going on the same time as the refugees and exploded onto the road as if they were propelled by a repulsion glyph. The refugees managed to get over their stunned druffalo act and start running.

He squeezed Bianca’s trigger, one, two, three more times. Bolts blossomed in fields of red on the chests of two more bandits. The third crumpled to the ground with the arrow piercing his knee. Those that remained of the bandits began focusing their attack on him.

This was a mistake as Cassandra emerged behind them, thrusting her sword clear through the chest of one, placing her boot on their back and kicking them off the blade as she turned and yelled at another who’s face became a mask of terror. The fight from that point was brief.

“I don’t think these were amateurs.” Varric toed a corpse, “Desperate and dumb usually doesn’t have access to good armor.”

“Agreed.” Cassandra knelt by a corpse, methodically going through their pockets, “We should ascertain their true purpose.”

They spent a few moments in silence, searching the dead bodies for clues. Varric took the opportunity to pocket anything he thought might be useful later. It was grisly, but you never knew when you’d next have the opportunity to replenish your bolts or stumble into the Deep Roads. The latter happened to him with astonishingly high regularity that at this point stealing health potions from dead bodies was less ‘morally grey’ and more ‘practical mindset’. One of the bandit’s pockets turned up an illuminating scrap of paper.

“Better take a look at this, Seeker.” He called out to Cassandra. She stood up, dusting off her knees and walked over to him, taking the note from his hand. She grunted when she finished reading it.

“Looks like someone’s bankrolling mercenaries to scare off potential witnesses.” Varric rubbed his jaw.

“Who would do such a thing?” Cassandra snarled.

“I’m more curious as to why. Maybe we should check out this villa the note mentions.”

“That is what I was thinking.” She started marching up the road in the direction the letter had indicated. Maker help any mercenaries they encountered on the way.


	9. The bond that links to your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life. -Richard Bach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Ayla travel to Winterwatch Tower to retrieve a breathing potion. Solas continues to be a jerk.

Ayla found herself annoyed with the sun. The weather in the Hinterlands had been unrelentingly optimistic, which seemed cruel. Her heart weighed heavy with so many things that it felt she might sink into the ground and the sky didn’t even have the decency to provide even the faintest wisp of a cloud.

She knew it was foolish to expect the world to care, but it hurt more that it didn’t. At night she dreamed of family, of mamae and da and Mary all together, stuffed around the table in the hovel they called home only to have them ripped away from her again every morning. And the nights when she was spared that dream, she was haunted by the dead faces of the templar and mage who had perished, her arrows poking out of their bodies like accusing fingers of shame and guilt. Nothing would be right for her ever again.

But the damn sun still shined on.

Mother Giselle had said she should look to the pain of others. That easing their woes could ease her own. And it did help, a little. Filling her days with the endless list of tasks around the refugee camp had at the very least, given her a reason to keep going when all she wanted to do was stop forever.

It was just that now she had nothing to do but chase thoughts and memories in her mind like deer down packed-dirt paths worn in the grass. The walk to the old fortress where the rift-worshiping cult was quartered offered little in way of distraction.

Ayla supposed she could talk to Solas. He walked behind her, his bare feet silent on the trail. But that idea still burned like ice in her heart.

It was unfair to presume that all elves shared community. It was unfair to think that he would at least understand life in the alienage because he walked bare faced. It was unfair to expect that she would find the same kinship with him she felt with Shianni or Sammen. Yet she had. And it wasn’t that he hadn’t reciprocated, it would have been one thing if he had rejected her on account of her ears, that she would have understood. But he had rejected her entire community. Her family. Her friends. Looked down on them with disdain and suggested they were better off dead. From a human it would have been upsetting, but normal. From Solas it was betrayal.

Her nails bite half-moons into her palms the more she thought about it.

“Is something the matter?” Solas’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

Ayla forced herself to relax her hands. To breath slowly and with purpose. She wished she could feel something between profound despair and all consuming anger. She searched for something true to say to him that wouldn’t invite further conversation.

“Nothing new.” She answered politely, looking back at him. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but disappointment seemed to briefly disrupt his carefully arranged neutral face. It was cruel, but it made her feel better.

They continued in silence. Ayla tried to focus on things outside her head. The slant of the shadows. The song of the birds. The sound of gravel crunching under her boots in rhythm with the tapping of Solas’s staff. She tried listening harder. Ears pricking with the sound of small animals in the brush, the soft murmur of Solas’s breathing, the steady beat of her own heart.

Over the crest of the next hill, they caught sight of Winterwatch Tower. Half the fortress lay crumbled, forgotten. Ayla suspected it had probably happened during the Fifth Blight when Redcliffe had been overrun by darkspawn, or perhaps the darker rumor that Arl Eamon’s son had raised an army of the undead had been the cause of the tower’s collapse.

The mark flared up on her hand and she sucked air through gritted teeth against the pain.

“Are you alright?” Solas was at her side, peering at the mark. Fingers twitching ever so subtly, like he wanted to touch it.

“There must be a rift nearby.” Ayla pulled her hand deeper into her sleeve. One of the many benefits to an oversized jacket.

“That is not what I asked.” Solas gave her a hard look.

Ayla stared back like she could find an answer in his face. She held his steel colored gaze. Everything about him was sharp, she realized, more so than other elves. His prominent cheekbones cut down to an unforgiving chin, dimpled like a chip on a blade. It seemed at odds with the freckles that dusted his skin, faint but growing darker everyday.

“Are you alright.” He repeated, like he knew he’d found a weakness in her strategy. And it was. Under normal circumstances, a noble or a patron could be distracted from probing questions because they didn’t care about her, not in a way that really required her to answer the question. Even though she had mentally recategorized Solas as someone to be ‘handled’, it didn’t mean he was going to neatly fit into that category.

“I’ll be fine if we can find the rift and close it.” Ayla chose her words carefully. It was more than she’d wanted to tell him, but maybe enough to get him to back off.

“But you’re not fine now.” He surmised, annoyingly correct, “Let me help.”

Solas reached for her hand. Ayla stepped away.

“I’d rather you didn’t.” She placed her hand behind her back.

“Why.” He dared her to explain.

“I don’t trust you.” Ayla felt vulnerable, but stood her ground, staring defiantly back at him. He stepped back. She couldn’t decipher the look on his face. Surprise? Hurt? Disappointment? Perhaps even pride?

“Well then.” Solas cleared his throat, regaining his composure, “If you should change your mind, you have but to ask.”

“If I should change my mind.” Ayla repeated noncommittally before turning away from him and continued up the path to Winterwatch. The closer she got, the more the mark reacted. It felt like a thousand burning needles pierced her skin with every flash of green light. She clenched her jaw, willing herself not to feel it.

The gates of Winterwatch were closed, guarded by a taciturn woman wearing a strange mix of Chantry and mage robes.

“I know you.” The woman said, “They call you the ‘Herald of Andraste’ for what you did at Haven. But are you? The Maker has not told me.”

It took Ayla a moment to realize the woman was waiting for her to answer. She should have expected this, coming to a cult. The religious implications of the mark, and by extension herself, were a question too big for her. Yet so much was forming around it and whatever people believed the answer was.

“He has not told me either.” Ayla said, with caution.

“As I suspected.” The woman said with a smugness that made Ayla regret her answer, “Stories of you mastering the rifts are blind heresy.”

“No, those are true.” Ayla replied with as much nonchalance as she could muster.

“Then prove it. Show me the rifts bend to your will, the will of the Maker. Show me the power you wield.”

Ayla looked to Solas, unsure.

“What is it you think is happening?” He asked.

“The Chantry has fallen and shown it’s imperfection in doing so. The Chant of Light was a lie. It was arrogance to think that mortal lips could frame the Maker’s will, and so we wait in silence. The Maker has opened  the sky. Soon he will take his chosen back to the Golden City.” There was a light of fervor in the woman’s eyes as she spoke. She signaled to the watchtower and the gates opened. Ayla nodded to the woman as she walked past, Solas at her side.

Inside the fortress a crowd of people milled about, some were dressed the same as the woman at the gate. There were murmured prayers and hushed fears floating over the courtyard. It was an uneasy peace of frightened people clinging to an answer.

“I suppose it’s only natural, that people would turn to worshiping the Breach...if only in hopes to appease it.” Solas commented as they made their way through the crowd.

“There is a rift...deeper in.” Ayla hissed, flexing her hand with the mark, trying to find some form of relief. Pain was roaring in her ears.

“Perhaps we should attend to it before seeking out the boy?” Solas seemed amused.

“Yes.” Ayla snapped. Was he smiling? He looked like he was smiling. She was trying very hard not to yell at him. Somehow that felt like he would win. No matter how much she wanted to. Or perhaps it was the pain impairing her judgement.

Instead she bit down on the inside of her cheeks and walked faster. Annoyed that Solas barely had to adjust his pace to keep up. Stupid tall elf. With stupid long legs. And his stupid staff going clack clack clack on the stupid cobblestones.

Ayla’s irritation grew with every step until she was nothing but a ball of anger and pain when they finally came upon the rift. The terror demons lurking near the rift didn’t stand a chance as her arrows charged with all her annoyance ripped through their bodies and returning their conscious to the Fade. The crackle of Solas’s magic took care of the rest.

She reached towards the rift with the mark, power flowing between them. It rumbled through her body in the same strange, but not unpleasant, way it had back in Haven, flooding her with relief. The pain, and the mark, subsided immediately as the hole in the Fade closed. It felt good in the way that breathing through both nostrils felt good after finally getting over a cold. Like an itch she could finally scratch. Like letting her hair down after it had been pulled up too tightly.

Ayla let out a sigh of relief.

“Better?” Solas asked. He was definitely smirking. It was still annoying, but at least now she could think of responses other than ripping off his ears and feeding them to him until he choked to death.

“We should find Hyndel.” She said brusquely, shaking out her hand and walking back the way they came.

The young elf boy was lurking in a loft at the top of a ladder, alone in the broken down tower. Nervousness practically flowed off him in waves, filling the room with anxiety.

“Hyndel?” Ayla approached him.

“Yes. I greet you.” The boy replied.

“Your mother can’t breathe. Your father sent us here to get a potion.” Ayla eyed him. He was dressed in the cult robes, fine silks, trimmed with gold. Expensive looking gloves were on his hands. He did not look like the son of a farmer.

“What? She was fine! She hadn’t had the breathing trouble in… Alright, I can help.” He sounded genuinely concerned, “Here! I have some already made. Go, take it to her now!”

Ayla took the bottles he offered, shifting them in her hand as a thought occurred to her.

“You had these already made?” She asked, as gently as she could.

“I...yes?” Hyndel seemed confused.

“Is there someone here that has the same breathing troubles as your mother?”

“No...it’s just…” Hyndel trailed off.

“You were worried about her.” Ayla answered for him.

“Yes.” He looked at the floor.

“Why are you out here?” She kept her voice soft.

“Master Dennet and his wife sent everyone away for safety. And then the refugees came, and I…” He let out a choked sob, “I couldn’t just stay and watch people die. Every day. I tried to tell father and mother they’d be safe out here, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“So you ran away.”

“No! It wasn’t like that! It’s not like that.” Shame colored Hyndel’s cheeks.

“You could go back and help.” She suggested.

“I can’t stop people from dying.”

“But fewer people would.” Ayla countered, “Including your mother.”

“But the Breach…” Hyndel sounded desperate.

“The Breach is everywhere, but your family is at the Crossroads.” She held the potions out to Hyndel.

“I...perhaps you’re right.” Hyndel conceded, “Even if this world is just an illusion soon to be cast off, I should make my parents comfortable.”

He took the potions back.

“We can escort you back, if you’d like.” Ayla offered.

“No, I need to gather my things. I’ll go directly after.” Hyndel began collecting things around the tower room with purpose. Ayla nodded to Solas and they began to leave.

“Herald…” Hyndel said, Ayla paused, turning to him, “Thank you.”

She smiled and nodded towards him before climbing back down the ladder.

“That was well done.” Solas said at the bottom, “He had the ears of the elvhen, but not the soul.”

“Who are you to judge.” Ayla shot him annoyed look as she walked past him.

“Perhaps you are correct.” Solas’s voice took on an icy tinge as they made their way through the gates of Winterwatch.

“Are you saying that just to avoid another argument?” Ayla scrunched her nose, her annoyance at a breaking point.

“You mean like you’ve been avoiding me for weeks now?” Solas shot back.

“Maybe I didn’t want to hear any more of your opinions on the _elvhen_.” She returned, hotly. His pronunciation had not gotten past her and she wasn’t about to let him get away with it.

“And what place is it of yours to judge me so harshly?” His words cut at her heart.

“What place is it of _yours._ ” Ayla spun around on her heel to face him so suddenly he barely stopped short of running into her. She glowered up at him, and though he was mere inches away, he did not back off. Solas glared back down at her with the same intensity she felt and it pissed. Her. Off. “Yes! Hyndel should be home, with his family, his people. It is the greatest strength the elves have. Our community. Our hearts _live_ with each other. But not yours. No. You would keep yours separate. Because what. Because it’s _hard_ to live in an alienage? Because it’s not the glory that once was? If you won’t stand with the elvhen when we are cast down in the muck then perhaps _you_ are the one who is all ears and no heart.”

“I _never_ turned my back on the elvhen.” His anger was powerful.

“Then where does your heart _live_ , Solas?” Her eyes narrowed, “Is it with the Dalish? With the city elves? _Where._ How can you claim to be one of the people if your heart is only yours.”

“How can you claim a people when they are fractured. The elvhen are no more. Only shadows remain and memories twisted into lies.” He raged, sharp and cold as a blade.

“No.” Ayla stabbed.

“No?” He challenged.

“We are fractured, yes. Beaten, broken, brought low. _But not gone._ ” Her nostrils flared, “We still live, we still hope. And we move forward.”

“We.” Solas reached out and ran a finger with a gentleness that belied the action over the soft, round top of her ear.

Her anger evaporated into hurt, and a lump formed in her throat. She struggled around it. He had won, but he would not see her cry.

“They.” She surrendered quietly, turning away from him. Walking in a daze back to the Crossroads.

He was right, of course. It was just one more thing she had lost. Outside of Denerim, there was no ‘we’ for her. She was Ayla, alone. And she hated how he had forced her to really, truly feel that. Even though she had known it. She had known it when she left. It had been easier then because she still had her family and the shape of her ears could never have separated her from them. The templars could, and the rift, and the mark.

Ayla looked down at her hand. The green glowing chasm looked back up at her. It was like a crack all the way to her center and all the Ayla that had been was pouring out, being replaced by...what? The words from the yellow-eyed woman she thought was Mythal had spoken surfaced in Ayla’s mind: _An outsider who never felt invited in. A lonely vantage point._

It both summed up how she was feeling and didn’t say deeply enough.

“Ayla?”

She realized he’d repeated her name a few times.

“Solas...don’t. I get it. You’re right. I know I’m not elven. Not really. I am nothing. I have nothing. Okay? You win. Just…” She choked on the lump in her throat and tears blurred her vision, “Just leave me alone.”

Unable to continue, she sunk to the ground, hugging her legs to her chest and burying her face, and her tears, in her knees.

“Ayla-” he started.

“Go away, Solas.” She cut him off. She felt him, hovering nearby.

“Go _away._ ” She said again. This time she heard him leave.

Slowly she counted to twenty, and then, she let herself cry. Great big sobs that shook her whole body. Her mouth, twisted and ugly and snot mingled with tears. Everything was wrong. Everything hurt. And she could see no end to it. There was nothing left for her to cling to and she felt like she was drowning. She was alone and frightened and lost. Emptiness gnawed at her chest until she felt filled by a great, dark void. How could she go on without mamae. Without Mary. Without da. What could the world possibly take from her next. Was there anything but cruelty left?

She cried until she was exhausted and no tears were left and then she sat in silence, unmoving, unthinking. Just...existing.

And then Ayla came to a decision. She had no family, no home, no people. But she had the mark, and that meant something to some people. She looked at her hand again, the mark cutting across her palm like lightning, still glowing green. She had hope, and she could _be_ hope. The Breach was big, and scary, and all-consuming. Maybe she couldn’t stop it. But she could bring hope, and if she lost hope? If Thedas lost hope? Then it wouldn’t be the Breach that ended the world. Like Hyndel said, even if this was the end, she could at least try to make people comfortable. Mamae and da might not be here, but they wouldn’t want her to give up. Not when there was something, however small, that she could still do.

So what if the elves were no longer her people, or if they never really were in the first place. She still loved them all the same. And the dwarves. And perhaps even the humans too.

Ayla took a deep breath and stood. She was surprised and embarrassed to find Solas had been waiting further down the path. He sat on the grass, staff beside him, engrossed in a book. He looked up as she approached.

“Ah.” He started awkwardly, “Are you...ready to get back?”

“Were you waiting for me?” She dug her toe in the earth, unsure.

“I was not eager to explain to Cassandra why I left you alone to be attacked by templars, or rogue mages.”

“I see.”

“But if you’re ready to go…” He closed the book, tucking it away in his bag and standing.

“I am.”

“Then let us be off.”

They walked in silence.

“Solas?” Ayla spoke first.

“Yes?” He answered, startled.

“How do you see the elves?”

“I can hardly think this is something you wish to discuss again.” He raised an incredulous brow.

“I, no. I mean...you said. You said you saw Arlathan when you walked the Fade. What...what was it like?”

“It was the greatest city in the Elvhenan empire. A shimmering jewel, a place of magic and beauty.” His voice was wistful as he spoke, “The Dalish tell of elves living in trees and picture structures of wood, but imagine instead towers of crystal, spiraling through the branches. Palaces floating on the clouds. And magic beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing. That is what was lost.”

Ayla absorbed what he was saying quietly. Solas observed her from the corner of his eye.

“What are you thinking?” He asked.

“We-I mean...the elves. They can’t reclaim that.” Ayla’s voice was hollow, “Halamshiral is a far away idea, but...Arlathan is like a dream lost in waking. How can they grasp that?”

“You are right.” He sighed, “The fault is mine, for expecting what the Dalish, nor any modern elf, could ever truly accomplish. Ir abelas, da’lan.”

“Te’abelas, Solas.” She felt fragile, “Ma sul’ama dirth’alare.”

“Ir del sil’dirth i’elvar’nas.” His voice was not unkind. She almost believed him.

“Te’del sil’dirth.” She shook her head, “Ma elvar’nas.”

“Ma nuvenin.” He chuckled, “Ma serannas. Your mother taught you elvhen well.”

“As did yours.”

“She never spoke anything else.” Solas hinted at a smile.

“Really? Then how did you learn trade tongue?” Ayla looked up at him, puzzled.

“I-” Solas coughed, “I am prone to exaggeration, at times. So I’m told.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.” Ayla’s brow knit together.

“More so when I was younger, perhaps.” Solas seemed to be doing his best to hurry away from the topic. She decided not to press further. Just because he had been an unforgivable ass didn’t mean she had to be.

“I have a question.” Solas said.

“You have many, in my experience.” She replied.

“True enough.” He nodded, “But in particular, I was wondering if you’d rethought your title of Herald.”

“No. It’s still dangerous.”

“You gave a different impression with the cult.”

“That’s because there were two of us and many of them.” Ayla shook her head, “What was it you said back in Haven? Sometimes posturing is necessary?”

“I’m flattered you remembered.”

“Even a blind pig can find an acorn once in awhile.”

“Am I the pig, or are you in this instance?” He raised a brow.

She answered him with a winning smile as they came back to the refugee camp.

“Look, Varric and Cassandra are back too.” Ayla waved at the pair. Cassandra crossed her arms, but Varric made his way over. “I should go see if Hyndel beat us back.”

“You didn’t answer my question, am I the pig or the acorn?”

Ayla only smiled at him again and hurried off.

“You realize that ‘Ayla’ means oak, right?” Varric said as he came to stand by Solas’s side.

“Fenedhis. I’m the pig.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times can I make Ayla cry? A lot more, I bet. I'm a little surprised at how often it's happened, but maybe not that much. The events of Inquisition are pretty weighty for anyone to deal with if we're being emotionally realistic, which is definitely something I wanted to explore more deeply.
> 
> As always, Elvhen badly cobbled together from Project Elvhen.
> 
> Translation of Solas & Ayla's Elvhen conversation:
> 
> “You are right.” He sighed, “The fault is mine, for expecting what the Dalish, nor any modern elf, could ever truly accomplish. Ir abelas, da’lan.”
> 
> Ir abelas, da'lan: I am sorry, child.
> 
> “Te’abelas, Solas.” She felt fragile, “Ma sul’ama dirth’alare.”
> 
> Te'abelas, Solas: No sorrow, Solas. (In the original conversation, a Dalish Inquisitor uses Haren, but because alienage elves use the term differently than Dalish elves, I chose to omit it here)
> 
> Ma sul'ama dirth'alare: You taught me an important lesson
> 
> “Ir del sil’dirth i’elvar’nas.” His voice was not unkind. She almost believed him.
> 
> Ir del sil'dirth i'elvar'nas: I was wrong and cruel
> 
> “Te’del sil’dirth.” She shook her head, “Ma elvar’nas.”
> 
> Te'del sil'dirth: You weren't wrong  
> Ma elvar'nas: You were cruel
> 
> “Ma nuvenin.” He chuckled, “Ma serannas. Your mother taught you elvhen well.”
> 
> Ma nuvenin: As you say  
> Ma serannas: Thank you
> 
> I waffled about how much elvhen to use, but it was important to me to show that, at least on some level, Solas does recognize Ayla's elven. Maybe not elvhen. But at whatever level he holds a Dalish Inquisitor to at this point, maybe a little less. He doesn't know what to think about her, at this point. Which will probably only get worse for him once Sera is introduced.


	10. So while you talk about me, someone’s judging you - Bob Marley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The companions are reunited. Cassandra's faith is challenged, plans are made, and similarities are discovered.

The companions spent their evening together around the fire for the first time since arriving at the crossroads. Over shepard’s pie and weak beer they shared stories of their separate missions.

“No shit. There I was, hiding in a bush waiting for the son-of-a-bitch to give me a clear shot and Cassandra just goes marching through the front door like the world’s most violent dinner guest.” Varric waved his mug wildly, beer sloshing dangerously, “I swear, half the outfit had either run or met the business end of Seeker’s sword before Bianca even had a chance to load.”

“The carta enlisted the help of mercenaries to keep people away from a mining operation they’ve been setting up.” Cassandra interrupted, “We should investigate.”

“I was getting to that part.” Varric shook his head.

“You were taking too long.” Cassandra sipped her beer.

“It’s a campfire story, not an official report. You’ve gotta have _details_.” Varric explained, “You can’t just hit your audience with facts until they relent. It’s not a pitched battle.”

“I...apologize, Varric. I am simply anxious to hear back from Leliana.” Cassandra pressed her lips together into a thin line, “Surely Mother Giselle has made it to Haven by now.”

“We could send a raven, if you like Cassandra.” Ayla offered, “It might help put your mind at ease.”

“The Inquisition has already been alerted. Leliana or Josephine will notify us if and when there is any change.” Cassandra replied, “I see little point in bothering them further.”

“Ah.” Ayla acknowledged, eating her pie in silence.

“So what about you two?” Varric wrestled the dying conversation away from Cassandra, “Heard you visited that cult in the hills.”

“It was...interesting.” Ayla swallowed and took a sip of beer, “They think the Breach is the Maker’s work and that he will take his chosen back to the Golden City. Also that the Chantry has failed and the Chant of Light is a lie. So, you know. Nothing obscenely heretical there.”

“They cannot possibly believe that.” Cassandra looked offended, “The Chant is the teachings of Andraste herself.”

“I think you’ll find people capable of believing any number of things, Seeker.” Solas said coolly.

“They’re frightened.” Ayla gave Solas a disapproving look, “The templars, the mages, the Breach, the Chantry _has_ failed these people on a number of levels.”

“The Breach is _not_ the fault of the Chantry!” Cassandra returned, “We’re working to repair it!”

“The Inquisition is working to repair it, Seeker.” Varric surreptitiously scooted away from Cassandra, “The Chantry denounced the Inquisition, remember?”

“But to abandon the Chant…” Cassandra looked down, pensive.

“It’s nothing new.” Varric shook his head, “Lots of people were abandoning the Chant in the days before the Qunari attack. People want their beliefs to bring them comfort.”

“The Chantry is that source of hope.” Cassandra’s voice was hard.

“If that were true for all people, would the mages have rebelled?” Solas asked.

“That was the fault of the templars. The Order was in need of reform.” Cassandra fixed Solas with a menacing gaze. Varric was scooting further away from the Seeker, and no longer being subtle about it.

“My apologies, Seeker. I was unaware the templars were distinct from the Chantry.” Solas bowed his head.

“Oh.” Cassandra was taken aback, “I see your point.”

“They offered their help.” Ayla took the opportunity to try and steer the conversation towards less inflammatory topics.

“Who?” Cassandra looked confused.

“The cult.” Ayla clarified, “They offered help. We could send them to Haven, or I thought we could encourage them to help the refugees here.”

“Certainly with how quickly they’ve gained a following, the cult could easily raise the standing of the Inquisition.” Solas offered, “Lady Montilyet could easily put their skills to use gaining influence.”

“Ruffles could use a crumpled shopping list and a misplaced sigh to do that, but you have a point.” Varric observed.

Cassandra was quiet, brow knit in thought as she stared into the flames. She seemed to be considering the question of whether to, and how to, ally with the cult very seriously. Ayla wasn’t surprised, the Seeker _was_ the right-hand of the Divine, after all. The Chantry, and its teachings, had clearly played a large role in shaping who Cassandra was. Ayla could understand how difficult this all must be for Cassandra. The Chantry _had_ failed. Long before the Breach opened in the sky. It had failed when it supported Orlais occupying Ferelden, it had failed when slavers came to the alienage, it had failed when it ripped children from their mother’s arms, it had failed when the Blight came, it had failed in Kirkwall and Val Royeaux. As far as Ayla was concerned, what was happening to the Chantry now was not unlike a house collapsing after the beams had rotted through. Unfortunately for Cassandra, it was her house.

“Either would be a good use of their time.” Cassandra broke her silence, “I leave the decision to you, Herald.”

“Ayla is fine.” Ayla corrected, “I guess we should ask them to stay with the refugees. I mean, eventually we’ll be leaving and someone should continue looking for lost druffalo and keeping the roads safe. The cult seemed adequately supplied, I’m sure they have the resources.”

“Winterwatch is on the way to the mine we uncovered. We could stop by when we go to investigate.” Varric scratched his chin.

“There is another matter I was hoping we could attend to, if I may ask.” Solas looked to Ayla, shifting forward and sitting up straighter. Both Cassandra and Varric turned their heads in her direction too. Ayla curled her toes inside her boots.

“What is it, Solas?” Ayla realized both Solas and Cassandra were handing her greater authority. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but knew she’d need to figure it out before she was in over her head. Which likely she already was.

“As I’ve explored the Fade here, I’ve felt the presence of an intriguing artifact. If you are willing, I would like to locate it.” Solas answered.

“I understand you are curious, Solas, but there are more pressing matters we should attend to.” Cassandra said.

“According to my research, the ancient elves may have set up wards near here.” Solas turned his head towards Cassandra in his rebuttal, “If we can find the artifacts they used, it might strengthen this area against tears.”

“That does align with our primary goals.” Ayla shrugged, “And I would like to leave the Hinterlands in better condition than we found it.”

“I am concerned we did not find the Arl’s men defending the roads, or in camp with the refugees.” Cassandra frowned.

“Do you think they might have their hands full in Redcliffe with the rebel mages?” Ayla asked.

“I cannot say.” Cassandra gripped her mug a little tighter.

“So the cult, the carta mine, the elven artifact, and Redcliffe. This would be less overwhelming if the Hinterlands weren’t so _huge_.” Ayla sighed.

“Then I hate to remind you the Inquisition is _also_ supposed to go and speak with Horse Master Dennet. Or maybe that’s the first thing we should do. I’m no fan of horses, but my feet could use a break.” Varric added, setting his bowl aside and stretching.

“What about using some of Leliana’s scouts?” Ayla started thinking out loud, “They should be safe enough on the road to Winterwatch, and they could probably find out what’s happening at Redcliffe. Maybe even check out the mine?”

“No, if they’re mining is what I think they’re mining, I want to check that out myself.” Varric shook his head.

“What is it you believe that they are mining?” Solas asked.

“Red Lyrium. But...Maker. I hope I’m wrong.” Varric crossed his arms.

“So a ‘no’ on sending scouts to the mine.” Ayla scrunched up her face and rubbed her cheek, “If it’s that dangerous, you and Cassandra shouldn’t go alone again.”

“I would feel better having Solas with us, but you don’t need to come if you’re not up for it.” Varric said gently, giving her an out.

“No, there is red lyrium at the site of the Temple back in Haven. It could have something to do with the mark.” Ayla gave Varric a small smile, “Besides, you’ll need me if you run into a rift.”

“That is true enough.” Solas nodded.

“Alright. Then when I’m finished eating, I’ll ask the requisition scout if they have a map we can use to plan a route. Solas, do you have an idea of where the artifact might be?”

“I believe I can make a reasonable guess. If we can get close enough, I should be able to sense its presence.”

“I will speak to Harding about sending scouts to Redcliffe and Winterwatch.” Cassandra offered.

“Well,” Ayla clapped her hands and rubbed them together, “Sounds like we have a plan.”

The next morning, the companions set out. The location Solas had indicated on the map was closest, so they made that their first stop. The early sun illuminated the landscape, sparkling through dew drops that still clung to the grass. The journey was silent but for the sounds of the group walking. Neither Solas nor Varric seemed to be much for mornings, and there was no time of day in which Ayla found Cassandra to be particularly chatty.

It was just as well. The only person she felt safe conversing with was Varric, and though he seemed more than willing (once fully awake) to fill silence with his words, it would only be a matter of time until Solas or Cassandra chimed in. And then it would be an argument. She’d had quite enough of those for awhile.

With the possibility of conversation ruled out, Ayla let her mind wander, and it found its way back to Denerim. What were things like for Shianni after the explosion in Haven? More than a few families in the alienage had lost children to the Circle, and the templars were hardly ever good news in the slums even before the Order rebelled. And there was Sammen. She owed him a letter, he should hear about Rosha and Mary. It would be kinder than leaving him wondering. The night they left seemed a thousand years ago, though it was little over a month.

“The artifact should be near here.” Solas interrupted Ayla’s thoughts.

Ahead on the trail, a lone woman was battling a demon, Dalish, judging from her armor. The companions quickly dropped into their battle stances. The woman had worn the demon down significantly and the group was rapidly becoming old hands at facing down Fade-born foes. The fight was quick.

“Peace, I am no danger to you. My name is Mihris.” The woman introduced herself, “By your weapons I see you come ready for battle. Perhaps we face a common enemy in these demons.”

“Andaran atish’an. My name is Ayla, this is Solas, Varric, and Cassandra.” Ayla nodded by way of greeting, “Are you fighting the demons alone?”

Mihris seemed taken aback by Ayla’s greeting, but recovered gracefully.

“Fighting the demons is pointless. There will always be more. And I have no means of closing the rifts.” Mihris responded, “But I have heard of Elven Artifacts that measure the Veil. They may tell us where new Rifts will appear. I was not expecting so many demons nearby, however, I believe one of the artifacts is nearby can you help me reach it?”

“It seems we have more goals in common than fighting demons.” Solas observed, “We seek the same artifact.”

“We’d be happy to join forces.” Ayla said, “The Rifts are a danger to everyone.”

“Thank you for joining me, I do not think I could have done this alone.” Mihris said as the group began to search the area.

“Where is your clan?” Ayla asked.

“I was-am-first of clan Virnehn. I left in service of my clan and saw that great tear in the Veil on my journey.” Mihris seemed nervous, “I know more of magic and the Veil than any shem’lin, so I hoped to help.”

Ayla raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Although she was starting to wonder if all elves outside of alienages were in danger of getting their heads stuck up their own arses.

“Ma’harel, da’lan.” Solas sounded angrier than Ayla had ever heard him. Even more than when they had argued about alienages. Of course his pride wouldn’t let Mihris make a statement like that unchallenged.

“I...we should keep moving.” Mihris replied. Clearly two non-Dalish Elvhen speakers was more than she was expecting. They settled into the familiar-but-still-uncomfortable silence that was becoming their trademark as they continued their search. Varric discovered an entrance, blocked by fallen sections of columns.

“We’ll need focused magical energy to get by. You, flat-ear, can you manage it?” Mihris spat the second sentence with such venom that even Ayla found herself prickling. It was unkind of Solas to have told Mihris she was lying, but to respond with flat-ear was unbelievably cruel.

“Ma nuvenin, da’lan.” Solas’s voice was as cold and smooth as a knife. He easily moved the rubble with his magic, even restoring the columns as they had once stood on either side of the passage with a flourish meant to make it look like the most trivial of tasks. Mihris didn’t comment.

More demons lurked inside. Cassandra charged in while Ayla covered her from the entrance with arrows. The narrow entrance hall kept the others from joining the fight, but she could feel Mihris and Solas behind her bristling with magic, just looking for another chance to show each other up. She realized she sided with Solas. With the demons gone, Ayla allowed Solas and Mihris to pass first. She had faith that Solas was the better mage and wanted to give him a chance to prove it.

The entrance was bare but for a metal brazier. Ayla examined it curiously, there was no evidence it had ever held fire. No soot, no ash, no tarnishing of the metal. Ancient elves may have been immortal, but she doubted even they would have had time to vigorously clean the brazier after each use.

“Allow me to take a look.” Solas’s tone full of mischief, Ayla couldn’t help the small smile of conspiracy that grew on her face. Varric raise an eyebrow and Mihris glowered in their direction. Magic coursed through Solas’s hands and the brazier ignited with an eerie flame of blues and greens. Mihris’s eyes went wide.

“What manner of fire is that?” Cassandra seemed wholly oblivious to the battle of wills going on between the mages.

“I have heard of this but never seen it before. It is called Veilfire.” Solas explained lighting a torch, Mihris’s lips grew tighter with every word, “It is a form of sympathetic magic, a memory of flame that burns in this world where the Veil is thin.”

Solas led them deeper in, their path lit by his torch. The aurora of the veilfire gave the ruins a hallowed serenity. Ayla felt a sense of history spanning from herself all the way back to the elves that must have walked these halls ages ago, an ineffable feeling was bubbling in her heart and her head grew dizzy with anemoia. She put her hand against the stone to steady herself.

“You okay there, Spoon?” Varric stopped next to her, looking on with concern. Upon hearing him, the rest of the party halted. Solas looked over his shoulder with some interest.

“I-I’m fine.” Ayla righted herself, taking a deep breath to ground herself in the present, “Just a dizzy spell. Must be the change in elevation.”

“I’m not fond of being underground either.” Varric gave Ayla a consoling pat on the back as she steadied herself.

“You’re a dwarf.” Cassandra’s scowl made it clear she had meant that as a question.

“A happy, topsider, city dwelling dwarf.” Varric replied, “How many times do I have to tell you people that?”

“There!” Mihris pointed, “If we activate that crystal, it should react to the strength of the Veil.”

“Sounds easy.” Varric said, his voice dry with sarcasm, “Just gotta cross a room full of demons and wraiths first.”

“That should be no trouble at all.” Mihris smirked, her staff already glowing. Not to be outdone, Solas ignited his magic with a crack of lightning. Cassandra made to charge, but Varric held her back.

“Might be safer to stand _behind_ the mages for this one, Seeker.” He said, not even bothering to unholster Bianca.

The room exploded with magic. Spells flashed and thundered. Fire and ice danced across the floor. It was difficult to judge either mage’s precision as their tactic was best summed up with ‘total annihilation’.

Ayla quietly wondered if the crystal was sturdy enough to survive.

When the magic settled and the last shocks of chain lightning were dancing in melting pools of ice, the demons were gone. The party wandered slowly across the room. A tree root had pushed through the ceiling and skeletons littered the floor. Even before whatever tragedy struck here, this was not a happy place, old statues with heads of jeering skulls peered down at them over the pommels of their longswords flanked by figures that looked as if they had been carved by an artist still half-asleep and plagued by nightmares. More skulls served as the lids to giant urns. The crystal sat, unharmed, in the very back of the room in front of a statue with too many heads and too little shape. Ayla shuddered.

“How do we activate it?” She asked, trying to focus on the the artifact and ignore the statue. The crystal was a sphere, it’s smooth surface only interrupted by a growth of blocks that seemed perverse. It was a green so dark it was almost black and it somehow reminded Ayla of secrets. The globe sat on a simple pedestal of some yellow metal she suspected was enchanted somehow to never tarnish, certainly if it was made of solid gold as it appeared, grave robbers would have carried it off by now.

“Many of the Fade artifacts that remain from Elvhenan are tonally activated.” Solas casually leaned on his staff as he watched Ayla examine the artifact.

“Sometimes the tranquil in the Wonders of Thedas would talk about how they could no longer hear the Fade sing to them.” Ayla ran her fingers over the surface, “Is it the same?”

“There are many theories on magic, and by extension the Fade, being musical, yes.” Solas smiled like a cat with cream in it’s whiskers.

“So in this case, being an instrument to measure the Veil might be a bit more literal. Perhaps…” Ayla gave the sphere a sharp tap with her knuckles like Sammen did his drum. The note reverberated through the artifact until it thrummed a cord. A glow of Fade-green light erupted from the surface to dance above the crystal in a perfect sphere.

“Yes, the wards are helping to strengthen the Veil.” Solas said, “This area should be safer for travelers now.”

“Well, that should prove useful.” Mihris added her attention focused on one of the urns, “And it seems the ancestors have left something for me as well. Interesting. I believe our alliance is concluded. Go in peace, stranger.”

“Ma halani, ma glandival. Vir enasalin.” Solas crossed his arms.

“I…” Mihris started to argue, but seemed to change her mind, “Perhaps you are right. Here. Take it.”

She handed Solas a carved amulet. He studied it for a moment and then pocketed it.

“Go with Mythal’s Blessing.” Mihris said, her words tinged with bitterness. She turned from the companions, seemingly intent on continuing to explore the ruin.

“We done here, Chuckles?” Varric asked, “All these statues are creeping me out.”

“I believe so, yes.” Solas nodded.

“Great. Let’s get out of here. I hate being underground.” Varric grumbled as they made their way back to the entrance.

“So you’ve said.” Cassandra replied, equally disgruntled.

“And I’m saying it again. Mostly because we’re still underground.” Varric continued to complain.

Cassandra grunted and walked faster.

They emerged from the ruins, blinking in the bright sun. The Dennet farm was still a distance away so the companions settled into their hike. Ayla thought about their encounter with Mihris, and how the Dalish elf had treated them, in particular Solas.

“Solas?” Ayla started, sidling up alongside him. He did not appear to have heard her. His eyes were fixed on the skyline, brows knit in thought.

“Solas?” She tried again, still to no effect.

“Solas.” This time she reached out and ran her finger along his hand. He startled, jerking his hand away and looking down.

“Ah, sorry.” Ayla quickly withdrew her hand, “I was just trying to get your attention.”

“No apology necessary.” Solas flexed his hand a few times before returning it to his side, “Was there something you needed?”

“I was wondering if you were alright.” Ayla watched his face.

“I am unharmed, if that is what you are wondering.” He gave her a nod.

“I meant, are you feeling alright? Mihris wasn’t exactly...kind.” Ayla clarified.

“Ah.” Solas dawned with understanding, “It was not the first time I have been called flat-ear. Nor do I expect it will be the last. I am fine, thank you for your concern.”

“Still, I’m sorry.” Ayla twined her fingers together and gazed at her palms.

“You did nothing, and have nothing to be sorry for.” He looked down at her.

“No. But I know what it feels like.” She glanced back up at him, he raised his brow in question.

“I mean, being outside.” Ayla dropped her hands to her sides, gripping the cuffs of her sleeves, “It’s lonely, and people can be cruel even without meaning to. Just, a hundred little things to remind you: you don’t belong.”

Solas blinked slowly at her, but said nothing.

“Just...I guess...” Ayla stumbled onward, “I wanted to let you know you’re _not_ alone. Not in this. For whatever that’s worth. Sorry.”

There was a long silence between them.

“Thank you.” Solas finally said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I drafted this chapter I found out Mihris is a character from The Masked Empire. I extrapolated a lot about her based on her in-game behavior, but have no idea how that holds up against her book character. I might have gotten her totally wrong. But that's what happens when you decide to stuff your game with cameos instead of character development.
> 
> Actually, now that I bring it up, all those cameos were kinda like fanfic in that they expected the player to be familiar with the characters already. Huh. OFF TOPIC.
> 
> The elvhen in this chapter is all lifted directly from game dialogue, and as such, the translations are somewhat general consensus. Although since elvhen can be highly contextual, the fan interpretations could be completely wrong. So take these with a grain of salt:
> 
> Andaran atish’an: Enter this place in peace
> 
> shem’lin: Literally quick-child. Elvhen for human. I think it's of particular note that elvhen always uses 'child' to refer to other races. It is intrinsically ethnocentric.
> 
> Ma’harel, da’lan: You lie, child.
> 
> Ma nuvenin, da’lan: As you say, child
> 
> Ma halani, ma glandival. Vir enasalin: You were helped, you are indebted. The path to victory.
> 
> Blaming the Chantry for the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden was something I realized must be true when reading Asunder. In the book, the mages talk about joining in the upcoming civil war in Orlais, wondering which side the Chantry would choose, and by extension, which side the mages would be fighting for. I realized that whomever the Chantry supported in a war would have a massively unfair advantage because that side would both have mages and the people trained to neutralize mages, templars. Which basically means if the Chantry supports your enemy, you've already lost.
> 
> Then you start to realize that for a long time the Chantry's idea of 'magic exists to serve man' means 'mages exist to be part of the Chantry army'. Which makes absolute sense when you realize the way the Circle is structured only allows strong mages to survive and has a focus on combat magic. Which is an odd choice when you think about how worried everyone is that mages are going to go power mad and murder/enslave everyone. You'd think the more practical form of Dalish magic that makes day-to-day life easier would be focused on. Mages who only know spells to keep milk from spoiling seem a lot less dangerous. But no. The Chantry wants elementary aged children to learn how to summon balls of fire.
> 
> Anyways. My point is the Chantry and the Circles are way more broken than I think Bioware realized. Definitely more than Cassandra realized, but we'll get to that.
> 
> Sometimes translating in-game mechanics to story points is...interesting. In activating the artifacts I looped back to the theory that the Fade, Veil, and magic are all tonally based and layered in a way that even a non-mage could activate the artifact. Since that's the way it is in game.
> 
> Ayla is familiar with tranquil because when she decided to learn to read and write, that's who she found to teach her. I figured it made sense since the tranquil shop keep in Wonders of Thedas would have very little to do and not mind a grubby six year old coming in and demanding to be taught to read. They also probably appreciated how children haven't been taught to unsee tranquil as people yet. We might revisit this bit of backstory later if it becomes more relevant than a throwaway line trying to move the story forward.
> 
> I seem to have settled in to chapters that are roughly 10 pages long in my Google Doc. That's a huge time commitment from all y'all as readers, thank you so much for making it ♥


	11. Doubt is a question mark; faith is an exclamation point. The most compelling, believable, realistic stories have included them both - Criss Jami

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra teaches Ayla to ride a horse and the companions deal with the Carta in the Hinterlands. A special thanks to bearly_tolerable for talking me through multiple writing blocks I had for this chapter.
> 
> 3/4/2018 I did some editing to this chapter so that Ayla's feelings come through better and some of the action scenes read more clearly.

“Loosen your legs. You do not need to hold on so tightly.” Cassandra instructed.

Ayla relaxed her legs, or at least thought she did.

“No. Let your leg hang from your hips.” Cassandra shook her head.

“I _am_.” Ayla protested, attempting to copy the way Cassandra was seated, “Or at least I’m trying to.”

Cassandra grunted and nudged her chesnut forder alongside Ayla who sat astride the most patient piebald pony in Master Dennet’s stables. The Seeker leaned out of her saddle and dug two fingers into Ayla’s thigh. Ayla yelped and involuntarily relaxed her death grip on the poor creature.

“ _Now_ you are.” Cassandra observed her work, “You stopped breathing again.”

“Figures you’d have a way to _attack_ people into relaxing, Seeker.” Varric called over his shoulder. For all his grumbling about horses, he sat astride his forder like the merchant prince he was.

“If you cannot help with Ayla’s instruction, do not hinder it with your chatter.” Cassandra scowled back.

“Alright, alright.” Varric held up his hands in surrender, “I can see when I’m not wanted. C’mon Chuckles, let’s leave these two to their lesson before Cassandra decides to teach us with end of her sword is the pointy one.”

“A wise plan, Master Tethras.” Solas nodded to Varric as the two pulled ahead and out of earshot.

Cassandra grunted at them.

“Where did you learn to ride?” Ayla asked, focused on trying to manage the length of her reigns.

“As a young girl in Nevarra.” Cassandra kept a watchful eye on her pupil.

“What was it like?” Ayla glanced briefly up at Cassandra before returning her eyes to the pony. Ayla figured if she could hold a conversation, she wouldn’t forget to breath. The trouble with this plan was her only available conversation partner was Cassandra.

“I saw little of the real Nevarra until I after I left and by then it was too late.” Cassandra’s voice was flat, misted with bitterness.

“The real Nevarra?”

“I am a Pentaghast, the royal house of Nevarra. Seventy-eighth in line for the royal throne.” Cassandra recited, “What little I saw of my homeland was through the bars of a gilded cage. My uncle treated me like a porcelain doll to be placed on a shelf and dusted when necessary.”

“So that’s why you joined the Seekers?” Ayla realized her legs were tensing up again and tried to relax, “To get away from your family, I mean.”

“It was a life worth leaving.” Cassandra pressed her lips into a thin line, “The Pentaghasts were once dragon hunters, but few pursue the craft. Most are fat and lazy, they pay lip service to the Maker and care only for idle pleasure and past glories.”

“You’ve no fond memories of them?”

“My brother was all that kept me in Nevarra. Once he was gone, so was I.”

“You have a brother?”

“I-” Cassandra faltered uncharacteristically, “I would prefer not to speak of Antony.”

“Of course.” Ayla studied Cassandra’s face, “I am sorry for your loss.”

“How did you-” Cassandra trailed off, and then grunted.

“My sister left me in the Haven, and my mamae shortly before that.” Ayla focused her eyes on the back of the pony’s head, trying to keep the emotions out of her words.

“I-I am sorry.” Cassandra fixed her own eyes ahead, “Perhaps it is of little comfort now, but they are with the Maker now.”

“Mamae will be furious.” Ayla’s lips twitched into a sad smile.

“You said you took lessons from a sister...I had thought…” Cassandra seemed suitably flustered, “I should not have assumed.”

“The lessons were at da’s insistence. Mamae stayed faithful to the Creators until the end.” The words clumped in Ayla’s throat like oatmeal and her chest ached, but it felt good to say them.

“Then, what is it you believe?” Cassandra asked.

“Growing up in an alienage makes it difficult to believe in gods.” Ayla spoke slowly, trying to pick the right words for difficult thoughts, “My faith has always been in my family and my friends. In our community.”

“The Chant of Light teaches that none in the Maker’s Creation are alone.” Cassandra said.

“The Maker can’t hear the prayers of an elf.” Ayla said gently, but not without bitterness.

“That is not true!” Cassandra’s voice raised with her conviction.

“That’s what the sisters in Denerim taught.” Ayla shook her head, “By nature of their being, elves are further from the Maker than humans and therefore less worthy. That is why they cannot serve as sisters or mothers, and there are no Chantries in an alienage.”

“That should not be so.” Cassandra wore her offence on her face.

“I know the Chantry is a symbol of hope and relief for many,” Ayla sighed, “But in the alienage the Chantry is a revered mother in silk robes trimmed in gold asking offerings from elves clothed in rags with more holes than stitches. It is a band of templars putting families to the sword because a child showed signs of magic. It is turning a blind eye when we are sold as slaves, or used for sport, or worse. The sisters say the Maker does not hear the prayers of elves, and I have never seen him answer one.”

“Divine Justinia would have seen that change.” Cassandra offered, “Her vision of the future gave me hope. She saw the war between the templars and mages long before it ever broke, and tried to avert it. But forces were allied against her. Sometimes a bone must be broken before it can be set. That is what the Inquisition is.”

“The hammer to break the bone or the healer to set it right?”

“Both.” Cassandra nodded, “It was to be the answer: a means to preserve and an agent of change.”

“She expected the Inquisition to be around for a long time then?” Ayla asked, brows raised.

“I do not know.” Cassandra pursed her lips, “Long enough to set things right. To remake the Chantry into a source of peace and hope for all.”

“A very long time then. Not even the Divine can order hearts to change.” Ayla sighed once more.

“I do not understand your meaning.” Cassandra focused on Ayla.

“The Chantry failed the mages for a very long time. They have taught that mages are to be feared, that magic is evil. People hate magic, and those who wield it. Their hearts have been poisoned against mages and it will be a long time for that poison to work its way out.” Ayla fought to keep her voice calm, the plight of the mages was striking to close to the plight of the elves. There was not one scrap of peace anywhere in this world, “If Divine Justinia saw the war coming, she must have known that and those feelings do not disappear overnight simply because the Chantry commands it.”

“But it is the truth! How could people reject that?”

“How much work would it take for the Pentaghasts to redeem themselves in your eyes?” Ayla pressed, “For Ages, the Chantry has been like them. Paying lip service to the ideas of charity and peace. To turn from a source of oppression to a source of hope is a long, difficult path.”

“I had not thought of it so...personally.” Cassandra considered, “But surely you must believe the Chantry worth saving?”

“Is it?” Ayla’s tone was neutral. In truth she had never considered a world without the Chantry. It had colored all life in Thedas for so long, even the lives of the Dalish were changed as fear of the templars effected how clans treated their mages. The Qunari warred against it, and the dwarves relied on trade with it. The idea that there could be no Chantry at all, corrupt and rotting as it was, seemed as impossible as a world without the sky or ground.

“Cast the Chantry aside, and new problems replace old ones.” Cassandra’s eyes glimmered with the hope of revival, “We will have learned nothing from history. People need stability. The Chantry needs a new purpose. Andraste had a dream for us. It can still be achieved. Instead of new cathedrals or sewing gowns for the Divine, the Chantry used to spend it’s coin feeding the poor. If we are to spread the Maker’s word across the world, we must do so with open hearts and open hands.”

“And if in a milenia, the Chantry has again turned from that purpose?”

“We try again.” Cassandra set her mouth, determined, “A chance for renewal is at our fingertips, it does not have to come with utter chaos.”

“I hope you are right.” Ayla’s eyes traveled to the Breach, “At the very least, if we do nothing, nothing will change.”

“I do not think it is unachievable.” Cassandra’s gaze followed Ayla’s to the swirling green miasma and grey clouds that hung low over the Frostback mountains, “We have to believe that, or all we do here is in vain.”

“Hey Seeker, we’re here.” Varric called from the front, “You teach Spoon how to dismount yet?”

Cassandra grunted.

The mine was hidden behind a waterfall. The companions could make out to blurry shadows standing lookout behind the rushing water. Varric held a finger up to his lips and unslung Bianca. His breath slowed as he gazed down Bianca’s barrel. The world went still, and he squeezed the trigger. Twice. The shadows behind the falls crumbled.

“That should keep them from sounding the alarm.” Varric checked the bodies, “Definitely Carta agents.”

Varric dug an old stone key out of the pocket of his coat and fitted it to the lock. There was a clunk loud enough to be heard over the falls and the doors swung open.

It took a moment for Ayla’s eyes to adjust to the low light of the cavern. Varric quietly shut the door behind them, muffling the roar of the falls. They crept their way in silence across the bridge, guarded by stoney eyes of the sandstone dwarves, tall and silent in their centuries long watch.

Carta thugs lay in wait at the other end of the bridge, except, whatever they were hoping to ambush they were expecting to come from the otherside. The thugs didn’t notice the companions at all, which made them easy picking for Bianca. There was a brief moment of confusion as a few dwarves caught on, their lives ending in surprised gurgles as bolts grew from their necks.

“Guards, but they’re not facing the door.” Ayla’s eyes scanned the cavern, seeking any more signs of the Carta.

“It seems whatever threat they feared lays further in.” Solas observed, using his toe to roll over a body and examine it.

“Perhaps a disagreement turned violent?” Cassandra ventured.

“Hope it got bloody, saves us the trouble.” Varric stood up from collecting his bolts, “Let’s keep moving.”

The thin blue light of day that filtered through the falls turned into the warm glow of torches as the companions pushed. The stone pathway lead to a building complex carved into a cliff face. There are no true dwarven ruins in Thedas, only buildings that stand empty. Empires may rise and fall, but dwarven architecture is forever. The group began searching the area.

“What do you think this place was?” Solas mused aloud.

“You’re asking me?” Varric prickled, “Just because I’m a dwarf doesn’t make me an expert on everything subterranean. I prefer the city life, _above_ ground.”

“So you’ve said.” Cassandra responded flatly.

“But if I had to guess, some sort of trading post. Even in its heyday, Orzammar relied on trade with the surface for just about everything that wasn’t a rock.” Varric added.

“Looks like an office up ahead.” Ayla indicated a doorway immediately to the left on the pathway.

“Alright, cautious. If there’s anyone in there, let’s try and take them by surprise.” Varric whispered, “So far, they don’t know we’re here.”

The companions crept forward, Varric in the lead. They pressed against the wall and waited as he peered around the doorway into the room, Bianca at the ready.

“Looks empty.” Varric reported, relaxing and entering the office.

The torches still burned, papers littered the lone table as well as several wheels of cheese, sausages, potatoes, garlic, and beets. Something had interrupted the Carta’s meal.

Varric rifled through the papers on the table and sighed, “There’s nothing here, we should keep moving.”

“I beg to differ.” Cassandra said, delivering a swift kick to the wall. What had appeared solid stone gave way to Cassandra’s foot and revealed a hidden room.

“Get down!” Ayla shouted, tackling Cassandra to the ground as a bolt flew over their heads.

“Come and get it, nuglickers!” The dwarf that had been hiding in the room Cassandra's foot had found shouted, readying another bolt.

The room crackled with magic as Solas cast a spell, ice growing from the floor and encasing the lone Carta dwarf up to his beard. Cassandra growled, springing to her feet and drawing her sword in one smooth motion. She bore down on the dwarf, blade raised to give the final blow.

“Wait!” Ayla’s command seemed to still the whole room as she rested a hand on Cassandra’s arm, “We wanted to know what the Carta was mining here. He’s Carta, he’s here, he probably knows.”

“He tried to kill us.” Cassandra glared at the dwarf.

“And thanks to Solas, it’s unlikely he will try again in the immediate future.” Ayla gave Cassandra a small smile, “In the meantime we should question him.”

“I not telling you anything,” the dwarf spat, “I’d rather die quick than suffer what happens to Carta traitors.”

“I can’t say I blame you there.” Varric observed, looking casual as he fiddled with Bianca, “But realistically, what are your options?”

The frozen dwarf frowned angrily but said nothing.

“The way I see it, we found you hiding from _something_ .” Varric continued, “Must be pretty bad if you’re here by yourself. Now, you could stay loyal to the Carta, in which case if we don’t kill you, whatever you’re hiding from probably will...or you could play nice and tell us what we want to know. The way to the surface is clear, we made sure of that. You _could_ get out of here.”

“And become a surfacer?” The dwarf sneered.

“Lotta opportunities on the surface for a smart dwarf.” Varric countered, feigning disinterest, “No caste system, no Carta...just a chance to make some gold, for _yourself_ and no one else, sleep easy at night, be respected without worrying who’s gonna shiv you to advance their careers…”

“Fine.” The dwarf said, “They’ll think I’m dead anyways, or kill me for not being dead with everyone else.”

“I knew you looked smart.” Varric smiled, “What is the Carta mining here?”

“Same as everywhere, lyrium.” The dwarf answered, “‘Cept this stuff is different, it’s red...and it _sings._ Not like the stone normally sings...it’s something _different._ ”

“Who were they selling to?” Varric asked.

“Carta got a big deal with the templars once they left the Chantry. Needed to keep their lyrium supply up to fight mages. Most of the product is the regular stuff, but then we started getting requests for the red stuff if we could get our hands on it. It was just a bit at first, then more and more. Now it’s practically all they want.”

“Last question: What were you hiding from?” Varric crossed his arms.

“Darkspawn. We had them under control, but we’ve been stretched thin. Lost some of our enforcers to those soldiers calling themselves the Inquisition. We shoulda abandoned this outpost weeks ago.” The dwarf spat, “But we were pulling too much coin. Greed won out over sense.”

“That’s all we wanted to know.” Varric nodded. Solas looked to Ayla for confirmation, she echoed Varric’s nod. The ice melted away from the dwarf with a wave of Solas’s hand.

The dwarf looked hesitantly between Varric and Ayla.

“You do know where the surface exit is, yes?” Ayla asked.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” The dwarf said by way of answer and wasted no more time making his exit. The companions waited in silence until they were sure their freed prisoner was no longer in ear shot.

“Darkspawn _and_ red lyrium.” Varric shook his head, “We might be too close to the surface to be considered in the Deep Roads, but have I ever told you how much I _hate_ the Deep Roads?”

“Yes.” Cassandra clipped, “On many occasions.”

“One might think you hardly ever pass up an opportunity to let us know how much you hate the Deep Roads.” Solas added wryly, his lips twitched in an amused smile as he leaned against his staff.

“Alright, alright.” Varric waved the other two off.

“What concerns me is the darkspawn.” Ayla’s soft voice brought the other companions to quiet, “It’s not a Blight, but we can’t leave them to roam the Hinterlands unchecked. The refugees have enough problems.”

“How do you know it is not a Blight?” Cassandra asked.

“If it was, this would not be the first we’d be hearing of darkspawn.” Ayla answered, grim.

“From what I observed in the Fade,” Solas began, “The darkspawn have something of a hive mind. The more there are close together, the more intelligent they become, but it still takes an archdemon to direct their action in a coordinated enough manner to strategically attack.”

“You know a lot about darkspawn,” Varric raised a brow, “You’re not gonna tell us you’re a Grey Warden defector next are you? Because the last time I met with one of those, it didn’t end well. For anyone.”

“I dreamt at Ostagar, I witnessed the brutality of the darkspawn and the valor of the Fereldan warriors. I saw Alistair and Cousland light the signal fire...and Loghain’s infamous betrayal of Cailan’s forces.” Solas explained.

“Fair enough.” Varric seemed to relax, “But if you ask me to go slopping around in a dung pile for potion ingredients, the answer is ‘no’.”

Solas responded with a puzzled look.

“What do we do about the darkspawn?” Cassandra asked.

“Why should we ‘do’ anything?” Varric shrugged, “We walk out the way we came, close the door, and break the lock. Scattered darkspawn patrols aren’t going to get past dwarven engineering. It’s the best we can do unless you want to lead a campaign into the Deep Roads. Which I do _not_ recommend.”

“No, there might still be survivors. We should help them.” Ayla countered.

“Ayla, even if there is anyone on the lower levels, they’re Carta. Not exactly the most innocent people we’re talking about here.” Varric replied, “I won’t lose any sleep over them.”

“What kind of people does it make _us_ if we seal them in here to be killed by darkspawn?” Ayla shook her head.

“The not dead kind.” Varric answered.

“I’d like to be the sort who can live with themselves.” Ayla gripped her bow.

“Fine.” Varric gave in, “But only because I know arguing with you is going to make me feel like the scum I am.”

As they wandered deeper into the complex, the sounds of battle drifted up from below. Two Carta agents were doing their best to hold a bridge from a squad of darkspawn.

Ayla exhaled and readied an arrow. This wasn’t like when they fought the templars and mages at the Crossroads. These were not men and women with mothers, fathers, sisters who were going to be left behind. These were not people who might one day be neighbors or friends. These were darkspawn. Creatures who only knew how to consume and destroy and would not stop until there was nothing. The nerves she had to ignore at the Crossroads were replaced by a fire born in the screams of the Denerim alienage ten years ago that stilled her heart and steeled her bones.

She hurried halfway down the stairs to gain a clear shot of the bridge. Her arrows whistled through the air, driving the darkspawn back from where the Carta dwarves were hunkered down. Cassandra and Varric rushed past her to help secure their position while Solas remained nearby. Thrust by thrust, bolt by bolt, spell by spell, and arrow by arrow the companions drove the darkspawn back across the chasm.

Just as the tide turned, as roar echoed through the cavern, a deep and ancient sound that sent chills down the spines of all who heard it. From the shadows of the tunnel on the other side of the bridge emerged a great and hulking hurlock bearing a hammer as heavy as sin and big enough to challenge the Maker.

The hurlock roared again, swinging its mighty weapon at Cassandra who had been nearest the tunnel. She regained her composure quick enough to raise her shield, but still was knocked aside by the force of the blow.

“Cassandra!” Ayla shouted as the hurlock bore down on Cassandra’s prone figure. Ayla ran down the stairs and ran halfway across the bridge, firing arrows as fast as she could draw them, trying to get the creature’s attention away from the fallen Seeker. Most arrows glanced of the hurlock’s armor as it raised it’s hammer to give the final strike on Cassandra. It wasn’t until one of Ayla’s arrows found its way into the joint between helm and shoulder plate, lodging deep into the darkspawn’s neck that the monster roared again, this time in pain. It spun around and focused it’s rage on Ayla, charging at her on the bridge, hammer held high.

The quiver at Ayla’s hip grew light, her final arrow striking the beast’s hand, causing it to drop the weapon. The hurlock did not stop its charge.

The world turned to a blur as the hurlock tackled Ayla to the ground. The hurlock grabbed a fistfull of fabric in the front of Ayla’s coat and used it to lift her from the ground. It roared again, right in her face filling her nose with the hot and rotting stench of its breath, flecks of spittle wetting her cheeks and slammed her hard against the ground knocking the wind from her lungs.  Ayla’s fingers scrabbled at the darkspawn’s arms, trying desperately and failing to claw her way free as the hurlock held her pinned to the ground with one hand and brought the other, hard and quick in a fist against her side. She would have screamed if she had the air. Ayla clawed at the hurlock’s face, scratching wildly until her hand fell upon the shaft of the arrow in its neck. She gripped it tight and twisted, rewarded with another scream from the creature as again it bashed her against the ground. Using all her strength, Ayla ripped the arrow from the hurlock’s neck and shoved deep into the left eye, driving it until she felt the head of the arrow scrap bone.

“Hurry! We have to block the tunnel before more come through!” Ayla shouted as she struggled to roll the hurlock’s dead body off  her.

It was Solas who sprang to action first, slamming his staff into the ground and collapsing the tunnel with a spell. The cavern an eerie quiet in the wake of the battle’s end.

“Cassandra!” Ayla struggled to stand, “Is she?”

“I am fine, Ayla.” Cassandra stood from where she fell, “Thank you.”

“The more pressing question is how are you?” Solas found his way to Ayla’s side. He reached for her. Ayla thought about refusing his help again, but her side throbbed and weariness flooded her limbs as the adrenaline of the fight evaporated. There was pride and there was foolishness and the line between them was thin. She accepted his help, allowing Solas to pull her arm around his shoulder and wrap his own around her back to support her.

“Nothing time won’t heal.” Ayla put a brave smile on it.

“Maker’s flaming _shit_ .” Varric examined the dead hurlock, “I thought you were dead for _sure_.”

“Are the dwarves…?” Ayla asked.

“They turned tail and ran as soon as that monster showed up.” Varric said, “Probably halfway to Denerim by now.”

“We need to get back to camp.” Cassandra said, “Leliana and the others should be informed the Carta has been supplying the templars with red lyrium.”

“Yeah. Can’t wait to write that letter. Here I was hoping what happened at Kirkwall would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. If they’ve got an army of Merediths...” Varric trailed off.

“I cannot imagine Cullen will take the news well.” Cassandra pressed her lips into a line.

Ayla had only a little difficulty making the walk back out of the caverns, leaning on Solas for support more than she would like. Varric had been kind enough to gather her arrows for her while he was retrieving his own bolts. She suspected tomorrow morning would bring with it the mother of all bruises.

Things went well until the companions returned to their horses, quietly grazing by the tree where they had been tied. Ayla tried to swing her leg over her pony like Cassandra showed her and immediately regretted everything. Pain stabbed at her side and her vision went white as she crumpled to the ground.

“Herald?” Cassandra was kneeling at her side, concerned.

“Ayla is fine.” Ayla responded reflexively, trying to relax her abdominal, the muscles flexed against the pain only inciting it further.

“Here, take this healing potion.” Cassandra produced a vial of red liquid from the pouch at her waist and uncorking it.

“Thank you.” Ayla accepted the flask. She took small sips until her stomach relaxed enough for her to drink normally and handed the glass vial back to Cassandra. The spicy radish flavor of elfroot lingered on Ayla’s tongue even as the pain in her side dulled and faded away.

“Can you make the ride back to camp?” Cassandra stowed the flask back in her pouch.

“I think so. It’s probably better than walking.” Ayla shakily rose to her feet.

“At least let me help you onto your mount.” Cassandra offered.

“That would probably be wise, thanks.” Ayla got one foot into the stirrup. Cassandra placed a hand on either side of Ayla’s waist and lifted her easily into the saddle.

“Something wrong, Solas?” Varric asked, “I haven’t seen you look that worried since Haven.”

“Perhaps.” Solas’s tone was noncommittal, “We did just discover the templars are using red lyrium and almost lost the only person known to have the ability to close the Breach to a darkspawn. I would think we all should be worried.”

“When you put it like that.” Varric followed Solas’s gaze to where Ayla was settling on her pony, “I see your point.”

“I can hear you, you know.” Ayla called.

“But can you listen?” Solas shot back, “Master Tethras offered a reasonable solution to the darkspawn that you ignored to save two lives, almost costing you own in exchange.”

“I hope you don’t see me as the sort of person who thinks their life is worth more than someone else’s.” Ayla’s brow furrowed with her disappointment. She mentally kicked herself for being unfair to Solas once again. She really needed to reevaluate his character for who he was and not who she’d hoped he’d be when they first met. Even if who she hoped he’d be was a better person.

“Ah.” Solas looked taken aback, “If only more people thought so, then perhaps the world would not be in the state it is in. Still, until we find some other means of repairing the Veil, it would be pragmatic for you to avoid unnecessary danger.”

“I promise nothing.” Ayla grinned and nudged her pony into a gentle trot, Cassandra followed after.

“Well, you did tell her heroic posturing was necessary.” Varric chuckled nudging his own horse, “Can’t say she didn’t listen to that.”

“We are all the architects of our own demise.” Solas shook his head and urged his own mount into motion.

“That’s what I like about you, Chuckles.” Varric replied, “Your boundless optimism.”

“It is comforting that whatever qualities I lack, you will invent for me.” Solas said coolly.

“No, really.” Varric laughed, “Why else would an elven apostate help crazy Chantry folk close a hole in the sky?”

“When you put it like that, I must concede your point.” Solas chuckled.

“We are not crazy.” Cassandra stated, frowning.

“Normal isn’t looking at a hole in the sky and saying ‘I can fix that’, Seeker.” Varric grinned. Clearly the brush with death had put him in a jovial mood.

“I do not know if we can fix that.” Cassandra responded, “I only know that we must try.”

“See, and it’s that kinda attitude that makes me think we might actually have a shot.” Varric said.

“Does that make you a boundless optimist?” Ayla asked.

“I prefer to think of myself as one of the crazy Chantry folk.” Varric shrugged.

Cassandra grunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being a woman of action, Cassandra is difficult to write. It's like trying to figure out what kind of dialogue John McClain from Die Hard would have outside of taunting the bad guy. She only experiences doubt in hindsight and doesn't question what she believes is right until it's shown to be wrong. I always felt the most insight we get into her character (at least without romancing her, which I have not done yet), is very early on in Haven when she talk about how she always knows the right thing to do and then does it, but then admits that she thought that putting the Inquisitor on trial was the right thing to do and now believes herself to be wrong. However, she does not appear to spend too much time dwelling on it.
> 
> I realize learning about the templars taking red lyrium now instead of at during Champions of the Just/In Your Heart Shall Burn changes a lot about the character motivations and the weight of the choice between templar or mage allies, but we are in fanfiction land. I felt it more important to reveal the red lyrium plot now when it made sense rather than later.
> 
> I also realize that in game, you slaughter everyone in Valammar, darkspawn and Carta alike. But I thought talking to the Carta to get the information would be more interesting to read than reading about the characters reading about the Carta's actions after reading a bajillion fight scenes. One good fight scene at the end seemed like it would be more satisfying.
> 
> A small point, but I wanted to include what elfroot must taste like. Given the infamous 4:20 crack Patrick Weekes made on Twitter, I spent some time reading a variety of forums on what weed tastes like. Apparently it depends on the strain, but the consensus was either piney, lemony, or skunk. There were also a few accounts from people who ate the flower saying it had a spicy taste. They used words like 'white pepper' or 'mild pepper' in a way that I thought they were trying to describe spicy like radishes can be spicy. Given that the codex entry for elfroot mentions it is actually the root part of the plant that's used for medicine (which is seems in direct conflict with the fact the leaves disappear off the plant after you harvest it?), elfroot having a radish flavor made sense to me. These are tangents I go on.
> 
> I also couldn't resist slipping in one of my favorite Varric/Solas ambient dialogues from the game.


	12. Anything can be fixed by tackling one small task at a time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric runs errands at camp before the companions leave to go back to Haven.

The companions were quiet at camp that night. Ayla and Solas had reached an uneasy sort of peace in their feud and were off in their own proverbial corners. Cassandra was struggling with writing her reports, to go out the next morning by raven. Varric took this moment to attend to his letters. After what they had learned in Valammar, he had a lot of writing to do. Luckily, as an author, he always packed a sheaf of fresh parchment and a full bottle of ink.

Hawke would want to know. That was the first person who Varric had thought of as soon as the Carta agent had revealed they had been supplying the templars with red lyrium. It would take a bit of doing, but he thought he could sneak a letter out to them without Leliana finding out. He wondered if he could sneak a jar of royal elfroot jelly to Hawke with the letter. It had been months since Hawke went underground, without regular conditioning her hair had probably swallowed her head by now. Maybe he could get a tin of butter cookies and strawberry jam to her too, she couldn’t be eating well.

 _“Relax, Varric._ ” He told himself, _“Hawke is a grown woman who is more than capable of taking care of herself. You don’t need to worry about her like a mother hen.”_

He still did, though. Keeping her as far away from Cassandra and the Chantry had been the best thing he’d ever done for Hawke. Even if he wondered if it would have spared Ayla. Hawke didn’t deserve any of this, but then again, neither did Ayla. Maybe even less. At least Hawke was used to killing people. But there was no guarantee it would have been Hawke tumbling out of the Fade with the fate of the world in their hand, she could have just as easily gone up in the temple explosion like everyone else. Second guessing himself would only drive him crazy. There was no way he could have known, no way anyone could have even guessed about the Breach.

Varric sighed and decided to start with an easier letter to write.

_Dear Bianca Davri,_

_You’ve probably already noticed the giant hole in the sky and heard the news that the Conclave Divine Justinia called exploded wiping out everyone._

_Well--almost everyone. There was one survivor, kid named Ayla Adalen. Half the people call her the Herald of Andraste while the other half blame her for the explosion. Of course, yours truly managed to entrench himself right in the middle of it. I’m working with the Inquisition trying to fix a lot of mistakes._

_One of those mistakes was mine. Found out the Carta have been dealing red lyrium to the templars. If Kirkwall taught me anything, it’s that the addition of red lyrium to anything is like lighting a match in an alchemist’s shop._

_I’d consider it a personal favor if you could use your contacts to find out anything about how the location of Bartrand’s Folly was leaked. I’d rather stop this before I end up facing down another 10 foot tall mad templar in the town square again--not that Haven has much of a town square left. Or much of a town._

_Yours Always,_

_Varric Tethras_

_P.S. If you’ve got any half-quarter gears send them my way. Bianca isn’t punching through armor like she should and I think it’s time for a full body service._

Varric patiently waited for the ink to dry and then folded the letter with the complicated creases the merchant’s guild used before setting it with a seal. Not his, of course, but the blank he used when nosy people didn’t need to know. Now any courier would think the letter contained nothing more damning than merchant guild business.

When he finished his letter, Varric found that most of the camp had retired, with only the soldiers on night watch still at their fires. He stretched and heard more than one pop coming from his spine. Sleeping on the ground and a day on horseback had done him no favors. Just once it would be nice to get into the kind of trouble that had him sleeping in a big bed stuffed with soft feathers every night. Wishing would get him nowhere, so he might as well turn in.

Although initially the companions had intended to improve their sleeping arrangements once they reached the Inquisition camp at the crossroads, the needs of the refugees meant that all four of them were still sharing the same tent. When he lifted the flap, he found the other three sleeping in what had become their regular positions. Solas had crammed himself into the back of the tent, as far away from the others as he could physically get without getting rained on. Cassandra was right at the door, prepared to guard them even in her sleep. Ayla had already wrapped herself around Cassandra, face buried in the back of Cassandra’s neck and an arm thrown over her waist. Varric smiled to himself as he carefully climbed over the cuddling sleepers to his place between Ayla and Solas. It was good for Cassandra. It had to be. He himself had awoken more than once to find Ayla had chosen him as her victim that night. He’d never say anything, only gently nudge her towards Cassandra and return to his slumber a little colder and perhaps even a little lonelier than before.

Varric settled under his blankets, wiggling a bit to warm them up faster and drifted off to sleep.

Dawn gave the canvas of the tent a soft glow and Varric threw his arm up over his eyes, audibly growling at the morning. Sleep had come fitfully as his brain chased thoughts of red lyrium, templars, and Hawke through the night. All his worries that had been waiting in the wings while the troubles of Haven had taken center stage were suddenly elbowing each other for the spotlight in his mind.

Only Solas remained in the tent with him, snoring softly. Probably exploring some ancient dream. Mornings like this made Varric a little jealous of those who could escape their troubles briefly every night in the Fade. Even if it was weird as shit. Cassandra and Ayla must have woken up earlier. Varric dragged his sorry carcass out of the tent to go find them.

The sun shined brighter outside the tent, Varric grumbled in its general direction. It seemed to be late morning, with most of the camp up and already started on their daily tasks. He spotted Ayla and Cassandra sitting by the fire. Ayla was uncharacteristically unwrapped, her heavy oilcloth jacket lay beside her along with her breastplate and she was holding up the hem of her faded tunic up so that Cassandra could examine the biggest, most colorful bruise Varric had ever seen in his life. And he had seen his fair share of bruises.

“Cassandra kick you in her sleep?” Varric said as he sat down beside them.

“I did no such thing!” Cassandra seemed genuinely offended by the suggestion.

“Relax, Seeker.” Varric grinned, pleased that his barb had landed. Ayla giggled and then winced.

“Please, Varric, it hurts to laugh!” Ayla said, “Cassandra won’t let me have anymore healing potions until someone looks at it.”

“You could have a broken your ribs or sustained internal injury.” Cassandra frowned, “The potion will help, but a healer can ensure that there is no lasting damage.”

“Wouldn’t want any permanent souvenirs of the time you wrestled a hurlock into submission.” Varric said.

“How else am I supposed to prove it happened?” Ayla said, “No one’s going to believe a runt like me took out a darkspawn hand-to-hand.”

“I suggest starting ‘No shit. There I was…’ Works every time.” Varric replied, looking around for breakfast.

“It is true.” Cassandra said, “I have had countless conversations with Varric that began with precisely those words.”

“Conversations, is it now?” Varric crossed his arms, smirking, “Is that what you Seekers call interrogations.”

“Of course, otherwise we would never meet people.” The corners of Cassandra’s mouth pulled back into a smile.

“An attempt at humor? So early in the morning?” Varric clutched his invisible pearls in a mockery of shock, “You must have received some very good news if you’re breaking out the smiles.”

“We received word from Leliana. She and Josephine along with the help from Mother Giselle were able to secure a meeting with what remains of the Chantry in Val Royeaux.” Cassandra said, “We are to return to Haven to resupply and continue on to Val Royeaux.”

“So we’re finally leaving the Hinterlands. Can’t say I’m sorry to be going.” Varric said, “There is somehow _exactly_ as much mud as advertised and yet, somehow more.”

“Hey!” Ayla protested, “That’s good Fereldan mud you’re squishing around in. Very old, very fertile. It’s even been known to have healing properties.”

“Herald, if you slap mud on your side instead of seeing a healer I shall drop you in Lake Luthias and drag you to see Solas myself.” Cassandra gave Ayla such a look that Varric was unsure if she was joking or not.

“Alright, alright. I’ll see a healer.” Ayla pulled her shirt down. From the cowed look on her face, Ayla couldn’t tell if Cassandra was joking either.

“Got something against healers, Spoon?” Varric had managed to find himself a bowl and was spooning himself some boiled oats from the large pot still nestled in the fire.

“I’m just not used to being able to afford them.” Ayla shrugged, leaving her breastplate but pulling on her jacket.

“Then what do you do when you are sick or injured?” Cassandra asked.

“I told you about the healing properties of Fereldan mud, didn’t I?” Ayla’s smile hid a flash of pain, it was so quick Varric doubted Cassandra had seen it. But there was definitely something that made Ayla uncomfortable on the subject of mages. Was it the general fear most folk felt after growing up listening to the Chantry, or something else? Her sister had been a mage, but that didn’t always make the mage’s family accepting, or even tolerant. Hawke’s little brother Carver had proved that well enough back in Kirkwall.

“I have yet to notice any such properties, though we have walked through much of it in the Hinterlands.” Solas coolly announced himself, striding past where Cassandra, Ayla, and Varric were sitting to serve himself from the pot of boiled oats. Ayla stilled as he arrived on the scene. Not as cold as she had been previously, Varric noted, but a chilly wind still blew.

“You know, I heard even the Dalish in Ferelden wear shoes.” Varric commented, blowing on his oats.

“I am neither Fereldan nor Dalish.” Solas said smoothly, sitting across the fire from the rest of the group, “Nor will I be abandoning footwraps in the near future.”

“Solas,” Cassandra said, “Leliana has sent word. The Chantry will meet the Herald in Val Royeaux. We will be returning to Haven as soon as the Herald is ready to travel.”

“Please, Cassandra,” Ayla said with barely contained exasperation, “Just Ayla is fine.”

“Are Master Tethras and myself to only continue as far as Haven, then?” Solas asked, eyes never leaving his oats.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s a use for a talented apostate mage and a handsome dwarf on the roads of a country that’s seen two wars less than a month.” Varric finished his breakfast and relaxed.

“It...could not hurt to have a skilled healer along.” Cassandra admitted.

“And I could think of a use or two for a handsome dwarf and his crossbow” Ayla added.

“Why Spoon, are you flirting with me?” Varric said in mock surprise.

“I can’t help myself, it’s the chest hair.” Ayla gave him an exaggerated wink.

“It’s always the chest hair. Women can’t resist the chest hair.” Varric grinned and leaned back, causing the late morning sunlight to sparkle across the curls of his chest.

“Careful, Varric.” Ayla warned, “Or I’ll have to drag you right back into that tent you just dragged yourself out of.”

“Now, now Spoon,” Varric held his hands up in front of him, “You wouldn’t want to make Bianca jealous, would you?”

“I suppose.” Ayla said with a wistful sigh, “Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.”

Cassandra gave a disgusted grunt.

“If you two are _quite_ finished.” She said, “Ayla should go see the camp healers so that we can be on their way.”

“Okay! I’m going! I’m going!” Ayla gingerly stood and picked up her breastplate, “Please don’t drop me in the lake.”

She walked away from their fire towards the small station the few healers at the Crossroads had set up. More had joined them from the cult in the hills. It seemed that they were making good on Ayla’s instructions to help the refugees.

“If Ayla’s bruise from yesterday was still paining her, I could have offered my assistance, Seeker.” Solas said.

“The reason Ayla didn’t ask you for help is the same reason you didn’t offer it until she was out of earshot, Chuckles.” Varric shook his head.

“I had thought the two of you were on better terms after yesterday.” Cassandra looked surprised to learn not all was as peaceful as she had hoped.

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Seeker.” Solas said in his neutral tone.

“I don’t think anything’s going to change without an apology.” Varric gave his two coppers as he stood and dusted off his pants.

“I have nothing to apologize for.” Solas frowned.

“You say that almost like you believe it, Chuckles.” Varric shook his head, patting Solas on his shoulder as he walked by, “I gotta take care of a few things before we head out. I’ll see you both later.”

Varric wandered the camp, things were settling down. The refugees and local farmers were finally able to enjoy some relatively peaceful moments since this war began. He could even make out workers, far in the fields, bringing in the harvest. All this shit had happened at the exactly wrong time. Those who survived the demons, mages, and templars had a lean winter to look forward to. Things had to be worse in Orlais. Which, if the rest of Ferelden and the Arl could feed Redcliffe with some to spare, might be an opportunity for a smart ruler. There were already rumors spreading among the nobles that Grand Duke Gaspard had his eyes on Orlais glorious past, and the Ferelden border. Ayla was right about one thing, the mud here was fertile.

He found one of the Inquisition soldiers packing a wagon.

“Hey, you headed out?” Varric asked.

“Got supplies for a scouting party headed to the Storm Coast, serah.” The soldier answered.

“Can you take a letter for me? Hand it off to someone headed to the Free Marches?”

“I’ll do what I can, serah.” The soldier saluted Varric and held out their hand.

“No need for saluting. I’m more of a hanger-on than an officer type.” Varric handed over the letter he’d written last night along with a gold sovereign.

“Of course, serah.” The soldier said, pocketing the coin, “Happy to be of service.”

“Thanks, safe journey, soldier.” Varric took his leave.

He started back towards the tent, but then realized that would mean he’d have to help with breaking down the campsite. Varric took a detour to the healers to see how Ayla was doing.

He found her sitting on the edge of a cot where Rhonwen, one of the sisters who had stayed behind when Mother Giselle had left for Haven, was applying a poultice to Ayla’s side that had the pungent sweet and spicy medicinal smell of spindleweed and crystal grace. Ayla’s hands gripped the side of the cot so tightly Varric could see her knuckles turning white with the effort.

“You doing alright there, Spoon?” he asked.

“It could be worse.” Ayla said through gritted teeth, “He could have still been holding the hammer.”

“That is a bright side.” Varric gave a short laugh.

Sister Rhonwen began to start wrapping the poultice in bandages. Ayla winced and tapped the sister on her shoulder. She looked up at Ayla’s face.

“Does it need to be that tight?” Ayla asked.

Rhonwen shook her head no and began loosening the wrapping.

“Are you here to collect me Varric?” Ayla returned her attention to him.

“No, I’m just here trying to avoid folding a tent with Cassandra again.”

Ayla laughed and winced, Rhonwen shot Varric a very nasty look.

“I thought I told you it hurts to laugh.” Ayla gasped.

“If you can’t laugh, how are you expecting to ride back to Haven?” Varric asked

“Carefully.” Ayla wrinkled her nose, and then tapped Rhonwen her should again to get her attention.

“Will I be able to ride back to Haven?” Ayla asked when the Rhonwen was looking at her face.

“It’s going to hurt.” Rhonwen signed, “Healing potions will ease the pain.”

“I don’t want to take any more of your supplies.” Ayla shook her head, “Would an elfroot tincture be strong enough?”

“A potion would be more a more effective means of pain management.” Rhonwen signed, “But a tincture would be better than nothing.”

“I promise when the healers in Haven chastise me for not using potions, I will tell them it was against your direct orders.” Ayla said.

“I appreciate it.” Rhonwen signed and went about tying off the bandage.

When she finished, Ayla re-adjusted her tunic and put her jacket back on. Slowly, but Varric noticed improvement in Ayla’s movements. Rhowen tapped Ayla’s shoulder to get her attention.

“Keep the bandage on until you reach Haven,” Rhowen signed, “Try to put crushed elfroot in your water skin at night so that it has a chance to steep for the longest possible time to reach maximum strength.”

“Am I free to go?” Ayla asked.

Rhonwen nodded.

“Thank you!” Ayla stood up, “And thank you for all the work you’ve been doing with the refugees.”

Rhonwen nodded again and left to take care of her next task.

“We should get back to help Cassandra and Solas finish up. I’m sure she’s anxious to get started.” Ayla said to Varric.

“You go ahead, I’ve got a question I wanted to ask Rhonwen.” Varric replied, “I’ll meet you later.”

“ _You’re_ still trying to avoid folding the tent.”

“Guilty as charged.” Varric gave his most winning smile and shrugged as Ayla walked off. He turned back to find Rhonwen, she was cutting old sheets into lengths of bandages. Varric waved at her.

“I was wondering if you could answer a question.” Varric asked when Rhonwen was looking at him.

Rhonwen gave him a small nod to continue.

“I saw Ayla’s bruise this morning, it was pretty bad. Why didn’t she see one of the mages?”

“There are only two mages at the Crossroads with any healing ability. One is leaving with you today and the other is out at the Dennet’s farm healing an Inquisition scout who was thrown from a horse.” Rhonwen signed, “We are extremely short handed, so if you find anyone with healing ability who’d be willing to help, send them our way.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep an eye out.” Varric waved farewell to Rhonwen, who waved back, and continued back to the camp at a leisurely pace.

His plan worked, by the time he made it back, the others had almost finished packing. There was little left to do but check the saddles and mount up. The refugees were considerably better off since they had arrived. More Inquisition troops had showed up to protect the Crossroads, the bandit had stopped, there were more than a few goats hanging in a smokehouse, and a few caches they had found had provided those in need with extra blankets and medical supplies. The only way they could do any more was to stop the war and close the hole in the sky. Both of which would be helped if they got the Chantry to get their shit together in Val Royeaux. As if they weren’t asking for enough miracles already.

“I _did_ see the healers, Cassandra. There just weren’t any mages available.” Ayla’s voice was calm, but her smile was straining a bit at the corners, “Sister Rhonwen said I’d do alright with just elfroot as long as I kept the bandage on.”

“You must not only be able to ride all the way back to Haven, and onward to Val Royeaux.” Cassandra’s brows were in their default furrowed state.

“Really, Cassandra. It’s big, but it’s just a bruise.” Ayla said, “It’ll be gone in a week, maybe two.”

“Solas, you said you were willing to assist Ayla.” Cassandra turned to face the mage, who up until that point had been innocently standing by his mount.

“That is true, Seeker.” Solas nodded.

“I’d take him up on that offer if I were you, Spoon.” Varric swung himself up onto his horse, “Two weeks on horseback’ll make you change your mind. Bad enough to have your innards jiggling around all day, no need to have them banged up on top of it all.”

“Alright, you’d know better than me.” Ayla tilted her head in concession. Varric had to hand it to her, she didn’t miss a step. He was starting to wonder how long she’d been dancing.

“If I may.” Solas approached Ayla, magic swelling to a verdant glow at the tips of his fingers.

“Do I need to hike my shirt up again?”

“It should not be necessary.” Solas hovered his hands over where the bruise was, the glow growing to encompass the area. Solas and Ayla stood like puppets, limbs posed to the task but faces impassive.

“Did you warn Leliana about the red lyrium yet?” Varric asked Cassandra.

“It went with this morning’s scouting reports.” Cassandra answered, “She and the others will know by the time we reach Haven.”

“Any idea what the Inquisition can do to stop it?”

“Our first concern would be to learn which of the templars have been receiving the red lyrium.” Cassandra spoke slowly and with thought, “And then stopping it. Cullen believes that they can be brought into the Inquisition and that their powers would help weaken the Breach enough for the Herald to close it.”

“Do you think that would work?” Varric looked down at Cassandra from his horse. One thing he had always enjoyed about riding, it was nice not to be staring up at people for once.

“It is difficult to say.” Cassandra pursed her lips, “I had originally agreed with Leliana to side with the mages. They were more vulnerable than the templars and would have benefited from the protection the Inquisition could provide. But the red lyrium could make the templars just as vulnerable, and be disastrous if left unchecked.”

“It took years for the red lyrium to break Meredith.” Varric frowned, “If we work fast…”

“That is a small comfort.” Cassandra swung up onto her own horse, “The templars have only broken away from the Chantry for a few months. Perhaps it is not to late.”


	13. In Their Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The companions have returned to haven to find the Inquisition experiencing growing pains. Leliana, Cullen, and Josephine all have their first chance to have a one on one conversation with Ayla.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just.” Leliana tried to calm her mind and focus on the words of the Chant, “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.”

She felt the cold ground where she knelt, small pebbles biting into her knees. Angry voices floated into the tent from outside. She wondered if she’d be able to get to the Singing Maiden soon enough to get fresh bread for lunch. She took a breath and tried to focus on her meditation. But lately she just couldn’t get there, that peace and sense of purpose she had always felt ever since she had the dream in Lothering, that had lead her to Lady Cousland, was gone. The only thing she found in prayer and meditation these days was questions and doubt.

“In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.”

She broke off her recitation.

“Is that what you want from us? Blood? To die so Your will is done?” Leliana demanded, aware that Ayla had arrived and was quietly waiting at the door for her to finish. Ayla, Herald of Andraste. Chosen. The only one to survive when so many others had died, including Divine Justinia.

“Is death your only blessing?” Her heart felt sick. Nauseous. How dare she question the Maker this way, she had to still believe He had a plan for her, for all of them. But if this was part of that plan? Did He really want so much suffering in His name? How could she still claim He had love for all His children? In the cold dark corners of her heart, Leliana knew she didn’t believe that, not anymore. And that frightened her.

“You speak for Andraste, no? What does the Maker’s prophet have to say about all this? What’s His game?” Leliana turned on Ayla, she felt the anger in her heart.

Ayla looked at her, eyes widening in surprise at the sudden attack and then deepening in thought.

“I remember you.” Ayla said after a moment, entering the tent cautiously, “From the Blight.”

“It has been a long time since someone has recognized me from that.” Leliana felt a wave of nostalgia, “I am...a different person now.”

“I grew up in Denerim-in the alienage.” Ayla said, sitting beside her. There was a reverence to her voice that made Leliana uncomfortable, “You helped save us twice, once from Tevinter slavers and once from Darkspawn.”

“I could not sit by and do nothing while darkness swallowed the world.”

“Is that why you are still here? With the Inquisition?” Ayla asked. Leliana was struck by the gentleness of her voice, it seemed in contrast to the depth of her questions. Ayla had been untouched by all of this and now she lay at the heart of it. Was it the Maker’s cruelty or His wisdom?

“Do you see the sky? The temple ruins? The bones lying in the dust?” Leliana fumed, “Even those who do not support the Divine’s peace, wouldn’t call this right. Who could?”

“I think most people want to see things set right. Only a few of us find ourselves in a position to do it.” Ayla rested her head on her knees and stared at the hand that bore the Mark, glowing a soft and unearthly green.

“If the Maker willed this, what can it be but a game or a cruel joke?” Leliana still bubbled with anger, “How could a loving creator do this to His children?”

Ayla remained quiet, but watched Leliana carefully.

“The Chantry teaches that the Maker abandoned us. He demands repentance for our sins.” Leliana stood and leaned against the table littered with reports, “He demands it all. Our lives. Our deaths. Justinia gave Him everything and He just let her die!”

Leliana pounded the table with her fists. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ayla flinch away. Make herself smaller, try to be less noticable. Leliana tried to reign in her anger.

“She was special to you.” Ayla said, “I am sorry you lost her.”

“Not just me. All of us. She was the Divine. She lead the faithful. She was their Heart!” Leliana looked towards where the Chantry stood, the banners emblazoned with the symbol of Andraste flapping in the wind, “If the Maker doesn’t intervene to save the best of His servants, what good is He?”

“I…” Ayla’s voice cracked, she coughed and started again, “On the way to the Conclave I lost my mother. We were attacked by templars on the road. She prayed to Mythal as she fought them off to save her daughters, and my sister and I...we survived that day. My mother traded her life for ours. If the Divine was the heart you say she was, I don’t think she would trade her life for the lives of those who survived.”

“And your sister?” Leliana asked.

“Gone in the explosion.” Ayla said simply, like they were the only words she could get out.

“I used to believe I was chosen, just as some say you are.” The memories of when she was sure ached in Leliana’s heart, “I thought I was fulfilling His purpose for me, working with the Divine, helping people. But now she is dead. It was all for nothing. Serving the Maker meant nothing.”

“It still means something to those of us who live in Denerim. Those of us who still have our families because you helped get rid of the slavers, those of us who still have homes because you took the time to defend the alienage, and everyone who still lives because you helped stop the Blight.” Ayla’s hands were clasped in front of her, the picture of non-threatening. Leliana could almost mistake her for a young bard, talented but still green.

“I should not have bothered you with this.” Leliana nodded to Ayla, “I regret I even let you see me like this. It was a moment of weakness and it will not happen again. Come. To work then, we will speak later.”

“Until later.” Ayla returned the nod with a soft smile and left the tent.

Leliana returned to her reports. She read the first few words before memories of Denerim, and the Blight, distracted her. It was so long ago, it seemed like another life.

“ _Marjolene chose who she became. So can you.”_

In her mind, Leliana was back around the campfire. Sitting with the Lady Cousland, the firelight making the warden’s skin glow golden in the night as she brushed smooth curtains of hair the color of the space between the stars.

Leliana had had a crush on Cousland in those days. A hopeless crush because it was clear to anyone who spent more than a few moments with Cousland and Alistair how desperately in love they were with each other. But still, Leliana treasured their friendship.

It had been just after they had eliminated Marjolene, Leliana’s old mistress and lover. She remembered how her frightened she was that she would become like Marjolene. Using people. No relationship to sacred to be sacrificed in reaching her goal. No one else’s survival above her own.

She enjoyed the hunt, and the kill. It had been the truth. It still was.

Cousland had told her she could choose who she became. And this is what she chose. Did she regret that choice? Was she wrong? Leliana missed her friend, needed her. The Inquisition needed her. It had no leader.

But when they had reached out of Denerim, Leliana had received a reply from King Alistair that had made her heart go cold. The queen was missing, and not even he had heard from her in months. He feared it had been The Calling.

Her scouts still scoured the countryside looking for any sign of the queen. So far they had only found rumors...but...perhaps there was something in today’s reports.

* * *

The war room in the Chantry was, ironically, the most peaceful place in Haven. Cullen enjoyed anytime he could spend there, alone of course. His arguments with Leliana about the merits of approaching the mages or the templars for help still raged on anytime they tried to talk strategy. Josephine did her best to keep the peace, but even she was growing short tempered concerning the topic. Cassandra’s news that the templars were turning to red lyrium had only poured oil on the fire. The three of them could barely be in a room with each other before the shouting started.

But for now, it was just him. A few moments of quiet to adjust the map markers for the Inquisition forces based on the reports he had received. He noted Leliana had already been in, the scout markers had moved since yesterday. The way the markers moved reminded him of chess.

If all these events had been random, the explosion, the Breach, the sudden disappearance of the Wardens, the civil war in Orlais, Hawke going missing, the markers wouldn’t _move_ like this. It was like there was some invisible opponent. But who? He swore at times he could almost see their pieces.

Or maybe it was paranoia brought on by lyrium withdrawal.

A soldier burst into the room before he could contemplate that thought further.

“Commander Cullen!” The soldier saluted, “There is a fight in front of the Chantry, some of the mages and templars…”

That was all he needed to hear to spring into action.

“Thank you, soldier.” Cullen left the war room with purpose. The assorted sisters, nobles, and pilgrims in the sanctuary saw the look on his face and scurried out of his way, practically hugging the walls.

This was all he needed. Tensions were high between what remained of the two factions in Haven. If it came to blows, what little ground the Inquisition had gained would be completely lost. He doubted they could return from such a set back. If the Inquisition couldn’t be trusted to keep the peace within their own ranks, no one was going to trust them with the peace elsewhere.

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!” A templar shouted at a mage. Ser Rothgard. This was not the first time Cullen had found him in the center of an argument. Rothgard’s favorite pastime seemed to be verbally provoking mages until they took a swing at him and using that as an excuse to start a fight.

“Lies--Your kind let her die!” Rothgard’s latest victim shouted back. Cullen knew him too, Enchanter Luther. Rothgard must have said something incredibly vile to have provoked him. Under normal circumstances, Luther was a calming voice of reason.

A group of mages were gripping their staves behind Luther uneasily. Rothgard had his one posse of templars, hands itching to draw. This had to stop. Cullen quickened his steps.

“Shut your mouth, mage!” Rothgard growled, beginning to draw his blade. Cullen reached them just in time, shoving Rothgard’s arm so he was forced to sheath his sword even before it was free. With his other hand, Cullen pushed Luther back a few paces, creating distance.

“Knight-Captain!” Rothgard looked surprised.

“That is not my title. We are _not_ templars.” Cullen said, looking to Luther as he did so to assure the mage he was not there as an enemy. He turned back to Rothgard, “We are ALL part of the Inquisition!”

Cullen would get that fact through Rothgard’s thick head if he had to remove his ears to do it. He could feel the mob hadn’t quite returned back to a crowd, so he turned back to the mages.

“All of us.” Cullen said with finality. It hung in the air, daring anyone to do anything other than work together. _Or else._

The moment passed and the crowd began to disperse, until a familiar voice came over it.

“And what does that mean, exactly?” Chancellor Roderick strolled like a tightrope walker on the invisible division between the gathered mages and templars. Just what he needed, one more person to stir the pot.

“Back already, Chancellor? Haven’t you done enough?” Cullen squared off with Roderick.

“I’m curious, Commander, as to how the Inquisition and its ‘Herald’ will restore order as you’ve promised.”

As if she had been summoned, Ayla appeared from Leliana’s tent. Cullen saw her assessing the crowd. She seemed about to leave when those at the back of the crowd noticed her and began to part, leaving the way clear to the center occupied by himself and Roderick.

“Of course you are.” Cullen said wearily watched Ayla over Roderick’s shoulder transform into the Herald as she approached. He didn’t want her to feel as if she had to rescue him. Although that she could had...appeal. He pushed the next thought from his mind before it had a chance to fully form.

“Back to your duties,” Cullen called on every scrap of his experience as Knight-Captain to give the command, “All of you.”

He was relieved when it worked on everyone but Roderick. And Ayla, of course. She hovered just behind the Chancellor, right in his blindspot.

“Is there a problem, Commander Cullen?” Ayla sweetly smiled as she asked the question. Roderick barely contained his surprise, jerking around to face her.

“The mages and templars were already at war. Now they’re blaming each other for the Divine’s death.” Cullen answered, uncrossing his arms and standing at ease.

“Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order.” Roderick hastily added.

“Who? You?” Cullen glared at Roderick. Roderick rubbed Cullen wrong on the best of days, but for some reason Roderick’s attempts to puff himself up to importance were particularly grating today, “Random clerics who weren’t important enough to be at the Conclave?”

Roderick swung back around to face Cullen, already red in the face.

“The rebel Inquisition and it’s so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’? I think not.” Roderick spat out, arms clapped stiffly behind his back.

“Then what do you suggest we try, Chancellor?” Ayla asked kindly, greeting Roderick with an open and honest face when he spun back around to face her.

Cullen felt his scowl deepen. Roderick did not deserve such consideration.

“All of this should be left to a new Divine. If you are innocent, the Chantry will establish it as so.” Roderick insisted.

Cullen thought of all the other things the Chantry had established as ‘so’. Things he had always swallowed as true, without question. And what would happen if the Chantry would be allowed to decide Ayla’s fate.

“Or would be happy to use someone as a scapegoat.” Cullen crossed his arms again to keep them from throttling Roderick there and then.

“You think nobody cares about the truth?” Roderick faced him again, eyes bulging out of his sockets, “We all grieve Justinia’s loss!”

“But you won’t grieve if the Herald of Andraste is conveniently swept under a carpet.” Cullen growled at him.

“If we are such a heretical lost cause, why are you here, chancellor?” Ayla’s tone continued to be pleasant. How she remained so, Cullen had no idea.

“I pray someone here will eventually see reason and help me bring _you_ to justice!” Roderick sneered at her. Ayla was unmoved, still fixing Roderick with her friendly smile.

“He’s toothless. And only here because there is no sense in turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth.” Cullen said because he needed to hear it out-loud, “The chancellor's a good indication of what to expect at Val Royeaux, however.”

“Well,” Ayla said slowly, the smile turning into a smirk, “Let us hope we find a solution, and not a cathedral full of chancellors.”

“The stuff of nightmares.” Cullen felt himself grinning.

“Mock if you want.” Roderick was practically apocalyptic, “I’m certain the Maker is less amused”

The chancellor spun on his heels and walked stiffly away.

“Commander Cullen.” Ayla nodded and started to walk past him to the Chantry.

“Herald.” Cullen responded, suddenly wishing he had a reason to continue the conversation. Something more pleasant to talk about. But nothing came to mind.

So he stood, arms crossed and face stern. Daring another fight to break out. It wasn’t until several minutes later he remembered that what he had been doing before the fight was placing markers in the war room. He could have escorted Ayla to her destination on his way back to finish the task.

Sometimes, he was a complete idiot.

* * *

The office was filled with the quiet sounds of Josephine’s quill scratching across parchment and the occasional clink of vials and beakers from Minaeve’s research. Josephine had had some reservations about sharing an office when so much of her work for the Inquisition required a certain level of discretion, but Minaeve had proven to be an ideal person to share an office with. The quiet sounds of her experiments provided somehow allowed her to focus more easily on the trickier wording of trade deals and land treaties. And the quiet humming Minaeve was prone to when an experiment was going well was not unpleasant. There was something about the way it sounded in the dead air of the windowless room that caused a pleasant tingling sensation at the base of her skull and made her feel flush with an energizing warmth.

A knock at the door interrupted Josephine’s work.

“Come in.” She set her quill down, placing the parchment she was writing on aside while the ink dried.

“Ambassador Montilyet,” the steward gave a brief salute, “Marquis DuRellion is here to see you.”

“Thank you, you may show him in.” Josephine rose from her desk, arming herself with her candleboard and quill and prepared to meet the Orlesian noble.

“Ambassador Montilyet,” Marquis DuRellion entered with a tilt of his head, enough that he showed he recognized her authority, but not the deeper bow if she had shared station or was above him.

“Marquis DuRellion,” Josephine returned his greeting with an equally shallow curtsey. The DuRellions had a tenuous claim on the land beneath Haven. Divine Justinia had negotiated with the family for the use of Haven for both a pilgrimage destination to the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the Conclave. Of course, before the Hero of Ferelden had discovered the sleepy little hollow, cleared out the cultists, and discovered the remains of Andraste, no one had cared about who used the land before. She was not about to allow him to believe he had any sort of advantage in this meeting. The Inquisition needed Haven, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It is with a heavy heart I come to speak with you, Ambassador Montilyet.” The marquis seemed unperturbed by Josephine’s greeting, “My wife and I are devout believers and were honored to give our land over to use by the Chantry when Divine Justinia. The sad news of her death brings that agreement into question.”

Ah. Right down to it, then. The DuRellions were an Orlesian family and Haven was well within the Ferelden borders. The Divine recognizing their hold on the land had been an advantage in The Game, now that it was lost, the marquis was clearly trying to see what he could salvage.

“We all feel the loss of Divine Justinia, all of us her feel her absence as I am sure the DuRellions do.” Josephine acknowledged, “But her work continues. The Inquisition will continue to carry out her vision for the faithful.”

“The Chantry left in Val Royeaux would contest that. They say that the Inquisition does not have their sanction.” Marquis DuRellion countered, “There are some that go so far as to call the Inquisition rebel upstarts.”

Clearly Marquis DuRellion had been speaking with Chancellor Roderick. The wording was too familiar to ignore. But was it an unconscious mistake, or was DuRellion pitting the Inquisition against the Chantry in a bidding war for Haven? Having the favor of a noble, even a minor one, would give the Inquisition a foothold in the Orlesian Court. If Josephine could work him around to supporting the Inquisition it could be worked into greater advantage. Unfortunate that Roderick had gotten to him first, but she knew she could rise to the challenge.

“The Chantry loss a great leader with the death of Justinia, but we were founded on her orders. There is no higher authority.” Josephine argued, “If you truly supported her, you will allow the Inquisition to remain.”

“The Inquisition _cannot_ remain, Ambassador, if you can’t prove it was founded on Justinia’s orders.” Marquis DuRellion pressed his advantage.

“This is an inopportune time, Marquis, more of the faithful flock here everyday.” Josephine changed her attack strategy. Val Royeaux may not yet recognize the Inquisition, but that did not mean others did not believe in them--especially in the Herald. Ayla’s support was their biggest advantage, and by luck or the Maker’s will, Ayla had just entered the room.

“But allow me to introduce you to the brave soul who risked their life to slow the magic of the Breach.” Josephine turn to welcome Ayla to the conversation, “Mistress Adalen, this is Marquis DuRellion. One of the Divine Justinia’s greatest supporters.”

“And the rightful owner of Haven. House DuRellion lent Justinia these lands for a pilgrimage. This ‘Inquisition’ is not a beneficiary of this arrangement.”

“I was unaware that Haven was part of a demesne, or a part of Orlais.” Ayla smiled at Marquis DuRellion, but her eyes flicked in question to Josephine. Josephine nodded and waited to see what Ayla would do. She was quickly becoming the face of the new Inquisition and would soon find herself in situations with much higher stakes.

“My wife, Lady Machen of Denerim, has claim to Haven by ancient treaty with the Monarchs of Ferelden. We were honored to lend it’s use to Divine Justinia. She is...she was a woman of supreme merit. I will not let an upstart order remain on her holy grounds.”

“Then I cannot believe any supporter of Divine Justinia would support turning the injured out into the snow.” Ayla’s tone friendly but her words were pointed. Clearly this was not the first discussion the Herald had engaged in. Josephine smiled to herself, this battle was all but won.

“And who benefits if they stay?” Marquis DuRellion countered, a true mistake.

“Divine Justina, Marquis.” Josephine went for the kill, “The Inquisition--not the Chantry--is sheltering the pilgrims who morn her.”

“Why is the Chantry ignoring the faithful?” The marquis sputtered, taken aback.

“Because it remains in shock.” Josephine landed the _coup de grace_.

The marquis sighed, defeated. Now to turn him into an ally.

“We face a dark time, Your Grace. Divine Justinia would not want her passing to divide us. She would, in fact, trust us to forge new alliances to the benefit of all, no matter how strange they might seem.”

“I’ll think on it, Lady Montilyet. The Inquisition might stay in the meanwhile.” Marquis DuRellion nodded his head, lower than before, and took his leave.

Ayla nodded to Josephine and turned to walk over to Minaeve’s workstation.

“Herald, if I may?” Josephine interrupted. Ayla stopped and turned back to her.

“Please, Ambassador Montilyet, Ayla is fine.” She said.

“Then you may call me Josephine.” Josephine propped her candleboard on her hip to better view Ayla’s body language, it had not changed from when they had been confronting the marquis.  That was a little disappointing, she had hoped Ayla’s time in the field with Cassandra would have made her feel more like she was a _part_ of the Inquisition rather than simply being sheltered by them. Cassandra could be prickly, but she had a warm heart. It seemed Ayla had yet to witness that, “You handled that well, His Grace’s position is not so strong as he presents it. Despite their Ferelden relations, the DuRellions are Orlesian. If the marquis wishes to claim Haven, Empress Celene must negotiate with Ferelden on his behalf. Her current concerns are a bit larger than minor property disputes.”

“The people of Haven will be thankful the Empress’s concerns allow them to remain in their homes.” Again Ayla’s voice was pleasant, most people would believe her to be showing sincere gratitude. But Josephine did not miss her point.

“Every kingdom is subject to its lords. The Inquisition _will_ require their goodwill to survive.” Josephine understood Ayla’s feelings, and even sympathized with them. Alienages like the one where Ayla grew up were not often subject to the goodwill of nobles. But Josephine believed change came from within, and the Inquisition had a chance to enact _real change_.

“Of course,” Ayla bowed her head in deference, “We are all subjects of a lord’s whim.”

“And it is my job as ambassador to ensure those whims remain in our favor.” Josephine said, “With careful planning, preparation, and information, we are not so helpless as that would make us seem.”

“Then the Inquisition is lucky to have you as an advocate. They will need it.”

“I do believe you are correct. Thedas’s politics have become...agitated as of late. I hope to guide us down smoother paths.” Josephine assured her, “Thank you for indulging me, Ayla. Now I must excuse myself. I have much work to do before the day is done.”

Ayla nodded and went to speak with Minaeve. Josephine returned to her desk, watching them over her paperwork. They spoke in low whispers, Ayla was handing over materials for research while Minaeve reported her findings thus far. Josephine made a mental note to bring up including Ayla in the report circulation. If they really wanted her to be a part of the Inquisition, they should treat her like part of the Inquisition.

Josephine noticed how Ayla relaxed around Minaeve. She was still pleasant, but there was an air of ease around the elven mage that wasn’t there when Ayla has spoken with the marquis, or even herself afterwards.

And then there was the deference. Josephine could see it was part of Ayla’s formula for dealing with those in power. Act pleasant, hide challenges as compliments, and make them feel that they had won so that they will move on. It was effective if the only goal was to disengage. But if Ayla continued to be represent the Inquisition, she would need to learn to attack. To stand for something. To win.

The first step was clear, somehow she had to show Ayla the Inquisition stood with her. That she would not be going into battle alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an interesting chapter to write since most of the dialogue for these scenes is lifted from the game - and if you've made it this far, you know dialogue is my jam. So it was fun to flex my other writing muscles for once.
> 
> It was actually really hard not to write Leliana referring Cousland as 'warden'. It's ingrained.
> 
> Ser Rothgard and Luther are both names I gave to the mage and templar Cullen breaks up in Haven. As far as I could find, they didn't have names. I prefer to use named characters where applicable because I think it makes the world feel more real. In this case, it also seemed like Cullen would know their names because the Inquisition is still small and he seems like the sort of person who would try to learn all the names of the people under him.  
> And of course, now that I've named them - they have little bios.
> 
> Ser Rothgard was in line for a promotion to Knight-Captain circle. He's still really upset about losing that, so he's been trying to prove himself a leader by starting fights with mages in Haven. Some templars who still don't see the mages as allies and equals follow him. Although after this Cullen totally makes sure they all get busted down to latrine duty. If you're gonna start shit, you're gonna clean shit.
> 
> Enchanter Luther was a teacher in the circle. He was responsible for adolescent mages preparing for the Harrowing because he's very emotionally intelligent. He's very good at calming other people down and helping them rationally tackle their problems and fears. He also was disciplined, although he only had to help Adan sort herbs. It's very important to the advisers that it not look like they're playing favorites, so anyone caught in a fight is reprimanded. This ended up being particularly key to stopping Ser Rothgard's strategy to goading the mages into throwing the first punch.
> 
> I never headcanon'd Josephine experiencing ASMR until I was writing her.


	14. I Hope this Letter Finds You Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayla sends a long overdue letter to Sammen, discusses the nature of the mark with Solas, and practices her archery.

Ayla sat at the little desk in her cabin, tapping her fingers on the letter to Sammen, thinking. She had hoped Leliana could get the letter to Denerim, but asking had seemed awkward given the direction of their last conversation.

She _could_ ask Seggrit. He was the most ornery merchant she’d ever come across, but he _had_ to have connections to a supply chain. Although she didn’t trust him not to read it.

Not that she trusted Leliana wouldn’t read it, but she did trust the spymaster to at least be discreet about it.

The letter didn’t contain any kind of information or secrets that could be used against the Inquisition, but writing to Sammen to tell him about Rosha and Mary’s deaths, and all the events following, had just left her feeling so vulnerable and exposed. She had poured more of her heart out than she expected...and then sobbed uncontrollably the rest of the night. She missed her best friend so much and the thought of anyone else reading the letter was too much to bear. And if they wanted to talk to her about it? She’d sooner throw herself into a Fade rift.

Perhaps if she tried Leliana again later this afternoon. Or maybe she could ask Josephine? It would probably end up going through Leliana anyways but it would circumvent a follow up conversation. Leliana had _said_ she didn’t want to speak of it again, but the pain was too close to Ayla’s own. And it seemed Leliana, like herself, lacked a confidant to help her through.

Leliana had been one of the heroes Ayla had admired as a little girl. Her twelve-year-old self would have been thrilled to think they would have anything in common. This kind of tragedy however…

There was a knock at the door. Ayla slid the letter into her dress pocket, running a finger over the embroidered edge Mary had done as practice. It was lumpy, and a few of the stitches were loose. It was the first pattern Mary had tried on a garment. Ayla felt her heart squeeze.

“Come in!” Ayla called, rising to greet her guest.

There was a clunk as the latch lifted and the door swung open, letting in a blast of chilly mountain air and Solas.

“Ah.” Ayla said, there wasn’t really anyone she would have been exactly excited to see, but this still somehow managed to be a disappointment, “Hello Solas.”

“Hello,” Solas said in a crisp voice, “I was hoping you might allow me to study your mark.”

“My mark?” Ayla unconsciously made a fist with her left hand, the ever-present green glow of the mark spilling through her fingers.

“Yes.” He gave a slow nod, “I was curious to see if it’s nature had changed at all now that the Breach is stable.”

“It hurts less.”

“With the exception of when nearing an active rift?” He said carefully.

Ayla fixed him with a slow blink, several thoughts competing in her head. On the one hand, Solas ranked right up there with templars on the list of people she’d rather not spend time with. On the other hand, was the mark. It’s unknown nature did warrant study. Solas, thus far, was the best person she knew to do it.

“Yes,” She answered slowly, “With the exception of when nearing an active rift.”

“May I?” He held out his hand, an offer.

She silently held her hand out, palm up, the mark lazily pulsing giving the cabin and eerie green tinge. He slid his fingers along the back of her hand, cupping it with his own. She was surprised by the smoothness of his palms, she’d expected callouses from where he wielded his staff. It was odd. The only people had ever met with such soft hands had been nobles. Perhaps Solas _was_ noble. From some lost elven city, preserved from the march of time. It would certainly explain _a lot_ about him. He acted just like every human noble who thought they knew better she’d ever met. The thought made her laugh.

“Something funny?” He looked up from his study of her palm, brow arched.

“Ah...no.” Ayla felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment, even though there was no way he knew what she’d been thinking, “Just a passing thought. Has the mark changed at all?”

“Like the Breach, it has stabilized.” His lips twitched in a brief smirk, was he laughing at her? “There are subtler magics at work and I would like to make a closer study of them, if I may.”

“Then perhaps we should sit?” Ayla asked.

“Of course.”

She expected that he’d have let go of her hand, but like all of her other expectations of Solas, he did not meet it. He used her hand to draw her after himself into the cabin proper. There _were_ two chairs in Ayla’s cabin, one at the desk and one on the other side of the room by a small reading table, but Solas ignored both instead leading her to the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, angled inward so that one leg dangled over the edge and the other was folded under him. Ayla settled herself opposite him, tucking her own legs up under her skirt.

Solas’s free hand hummed with his own magic, the green light dancing around his fingers like an aurora in the sky. He passed it over the mark. Ayla’s muscles tensed in her forearm as she fought the instinct to jerk away.

“Did that hurt?” Solas asked, concerned.

“No, I just...thought it would.” Ayla admitted sheepishly.

“Have other spells caused the mark to hurt?”

“Not really, but sometimes it...fizzes a bit when I’m standing close to you in battle.” She volunteered. Solas’s curiosity about the mark was probably only eclipsed by Ayla’s own, if only because it was on her hand.

“Fizzes?” His brow raised.

“Like a tingling--but more.” Ayla struggled to explain, “A bit like I plunged it into a pint of lager.”

“And this only happens when you are near a spell-caster?”

“It might happen near Varric and Cassandra too. It’s difficult to tell since whenever we’re fighting, you’re usually nearby.” Ayla rubbed the back of her neck.

“Have you felt this ‘fizzing’ when you are in battle alone?”

“I’ve--uh--I’ve not gotten into a fight by myself.” She dug her fingers into her shoulder muscle, pressing against the tension.

“So it is entirely possible that the sensation is related to the fight and not the spells.” Solas concluded.

“I hadn’t considered it.” Ayla dropped her hand back to her side, “I suppose I assumed that the magic mark would react to magic spells.”

“Ah, well. Most things react to magic spells. A fire spell, for instance, will set most things on fire. And an ice spell,” Solas summoned a perfect globe of ice in his free hand, “Will make most things cooler.”

“Right, but that’s not what I meant and you know it.” Ayla jerked her left hand away and crossed it under her right, frowning at him.

He laughed and Ayla felt herself go scarlet.

“Of course, but there _was_ another reason I caste the spell.” He had a smirk that Ayla would have quite liked to slap off his face.

She settled for glaring at him.

“Did the mark react?” He was completely, and disappointingly, unruffled.

“I wasn’t paying attention.” She clipped, laying her hand back on top of his, “Do it again.”

Solas, shaking his head, set the ice globe in the wash basin and summoned another one.

“Well?” He looked at her expectantly.

“No, no reaction.” Ayla sighed. She really, _really_ didn’t want him to be right.

“Shall I try a barrier spell?”

“Is there a good reason not to?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

Ayla nodded her consent, focusing on the feeling of the mark. Solas’s magic grew brighter and there was a flash of runes on the floor before the tell-tale points of light were dancing around both of them.

“Anything?” He asked.

“Nothing.” She gave a small huff of defeat, “You’re correct. If it is reacting to magic, it’s not magic alone.”

Solas caste more spells, esoteric ones meant for research. Ayla sat quietly, thinking. Then something clicked.

“Do you think the mark is reacting to the thinning of the Veil?” She asked, breaking the silence.

“Pardon?” Solas looked up.

“Do you think it’s reacting to the thinning of the Veil?” Ayla repeated.

“I am afraid I don’t follow.”

“Well, it reacts to tears in the Veil,” Ayla spoke hesitantly, she wasn’t sure if it was a stupid idea or not and she was afraid of sounding like an idiot, “And you always hear that the Veil is thin at sites of great battles, so what if, when I’m near a fight, the mark is reacting to the thinning of the Veil?”

Solas peered at her as one might a talking dog.

“Alright. Dumb idea. Sorry for distracting you.” Ayla worried her fingers over a chain of flowers her mamae had done around a patch in her skirt.

“On the contrary,” Solas’s voice was low, “I find that to be a very likely explanation. A pity we cannot test it, at least, not easily. The Veil is considerably thinned at the site of the temple, but the proximity of the Breach would cause the mark to react regardless.”

“Is there a place the Veil is thin near Val Royeaux?” Ayla asked.

“None that I am immediately aware of, but I can research it before we leave.”

“Did you...did you learn anything else about the mark?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know.” He sounded frustrated.

“I wish I knew how it worked.” Ayla said, tracing around where the mark split her palm with her finger.

“Is it not enough that it _does_ work?” He asked, she could hear the laughter in the edges of his voice, hiding.

“Not while I’m the only one who can close rifts, no.”

“Where you planning on leaving us?” His tone was light, but his brow was furrowed.

“No,” Ayla shook her head, “I just think it would be better if I wasn’t the only way of closing the rifts.”

“More Heralds of Andraste?” He said cheekily, “Your Chantry can barely handle the heresy of one.”

Ayla gave him a pained smile. She didn’t _want_ to be called ‘Herald of Andraste’, it sounded like a good way to end up on some noble’s roasting fire. Chancellor Roderick was certainly eager enough to see her head on a pike. And the more she spoke with Cassandra, or Leliana, the more she realized it wasn’t _her_ Chantry. Yet here she was, part of a rebel organization disavowed _by_ the Chantry. And it was poised to change the world, _she_ was poised to change the world and that was terrifying. There was so much wrong, she knew that as truly and deeply as anyone who grew up in the poverty of an alienage. But how? What would be a change for the better? How could she be sure anything she did wouldn’t just make everything worse?

“I’m sure you’d feel differently if you were the one stumbling out of the Fade with the mark.” She said.

“I imagine you are correct.” His eyes twinkled, “But it does neither one of us any good to dwell on might have beens. We can only deal with the problems at hand.”

“Like the Breach.”

“Precisely, like the Breach” He nodded, “What has happened can’t be changed no matter how much we wish it. We can only observe, and learn, and hope that our next plan goes better.”

Ayla tucked her hand into the pocket where she had put the letter to Sammen and tapped her finger on the corner of it. Talking to Solas reminded her of talking with Sammen, in that it was nothing like talking with Sammen. After their talks she always felt lighter, less alone. Somehow the more she spoke with Solas, the more things to worry about she discovered, and she had never felt so alone while someone was holding her hand.

“Is it still killing me?” Ayla refocused on learning about the mark.

Solas caught her eyes for a moment and dropped his gaze. She thought, briefly, that he looked ashamed. He clasped her marked hand between both of his, and closed his eyes. A spell flashed between his palms and she felt his magic in her veins like lazy morning sunshine. He withdrew his hand, his long fingers dragging across her wrist and palm with feather light touches. It was so strange that someone who could be so gentle could also have such a harsh opinion of others.

“Not today.” He answered, but she saw sadness in him.

“But it _is_ killing me.” Ayla concluded.

“Not as quickly as it once was,” He held her gaze, eyes searching, “But yes, it is.”

Ayla looked away from him, staring at her the mark and at nothing at all as she absorbed this information. She thought about the story she had told Leliana about Mamae. She thought about Mary. She thought about Sammen and Shianni and Mr. Alberts back in Denerim. She thought of her da, somewhere in Tevinter. Of all the refugees she had met at the Crossroads.

“Then we’d better hurry and close the Breach before the Chantry has to come up with their own idea.” She gave him a reassuring smile.

“There is a chance that fully closing the Breach will stop the mark.” Now he was the one trying to be reassuring.

“And a chance it won’t. It’s alright, Solas.” Ayla took back her hand and folded it in her lap, “It does no good to dwell on might have beens, right? Whatever else may have been, I have the mark now, and we can only move forward from here.”

Solas looked at his now empty hand laid it by his side. It was a moment before he said anything.

“If you had been given the choice, would you have taken the mark?” He asked.

“Why do you want to know?” Ayla looked at him, perplexed.

“You are…” He searched for the right words, “...not what I expected.”

“Because you expected someone crushed by...what was it? ‘Mundane poverty’?” Ayla regretted bringing it up almost immediately from the way Solas frowned. But it stirred the anger she still held like a rock hitting a hornet’s nest.

“You are not like them.” Solas backpedaled.

“No.” Ayla stood, fuming, “I am _exactly_ like them. Do _not_ tell me I’m not like others in the alienage so that you can remain comfortable in your beliefs about alienages. And do _not_ assume that such a statement is a compliment to me. I am the product of my community. Do not presume otherwise.”

“I will endeavor to keep all of my presumptions to myself from here on.” His voice was cold.

Ayla sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She took another deep breath for good measure.

“Perhaps we should avoid any discussion of the elves.” She said, “It’s a long way to Val Royeaux and there isn’t any point in making the journey more arduous for our companions than it needs to be.”

He rose from the bed in stormy quiet. Towering over her with eyes as hard as flint, driving into her like arrowheads. She clenched her fists and stared back, not giving an inch.

“If that is what you wish,” His voice deceptively calm, “How can I refuse a request from the Herald of Andraste? Or is it a holy order now?”

The title twisted like a knife in her chest. He meant to hurt her. It worked. The corners of her eyes stung with tears she refused to cry in front of him.

“As you say, Solas.” She tried to speak calmly, it came out in a whisper. She didn’t budge, only continued to look up at him, waiting.

He said nothing, but she could she his thoughts playing in his eyes. The anger which had sharpened them wavered and softened, replaced briefly with a sadness so deep she knew it was not her who put it there, and returned to the critical gaze that made its home on his face most days. Still he said nothing.

“Was there anything else you wanted?” She whispered, losing the battle with her tears. She felt the trails of their wetness as they slide down her cheeks. She cried so easily now.

“I-” He reached up as if he meant to wipe the tears from her cheek. Alya tilted her head away from his hand without looking away from his face. In this she would not yield. His hand hovered there on the border of her vision. He balled his fist and let it drop back to his side.

“No.” He steps back, it is a moment before he adds “ _Ma melava halani,_ Ayla _._ ”

“ _Ma telir da’nua_ .” She said after a bit, remembering how pained he had seemed when they met Mihris. As an apostate, he must get lonely, he held himself apart from the rest of the Inquisition. Why all of his social impulses seemed to circle around bothering _her_ she could not understand.

“ _Ma nuvenin._ ” He laughed, “I have taken enough of your time, I will look into suitable locations to test your theory about the mark near Val Royeaux.”

“Thank you, Solas.” She walked him to the door, “I am interested to learn more.”

“Good-bye.” He nodded as he left.

“Good-bye.” Ayla pressed the door tight to make sure the latch caught. It was cold enough in Haven without the wind blasting through her cabin.

Well, it certainly had been an _interesting_ visit. Solas at least seemed to be making an effort, even if his efforts were all in the wrong direction. And some small, malicious part of her enjoyed saying all the things to Solas that she never could to every noble, tavern keeper, or drunken patron - and the sober ones too, really. What would Shianni do?

Be angry. Stand strong. Fight for a solution.

Ayla reached into her pocket to touch the letter to Sammen again. It was an unstitched thread. The first draw of a needle to mend a hole that gaped in her heart.

Suddenly the cabin was too small.

Throwing on her jacket, Ayla grabbed her bow and a fistful of arrows and escaped. Her feet took her through Haven’s gates to the field where Cullen’s soldiers trained. The din of metal on metal as the soldiers learned the most effective way to kill without being killed blotted out all other sounds in the air. Ayla gave them a wide berth as she made her way to the archery field where Leliana’s scouts practiced.

It was significantly quieter here, though the ringing of swords could still be heard. There were a few agents Leliana had singled out for scout training, learning their way around a bow. The targets here were stationary, not enough of a challenge to give her a rest from the thoughts that whirled around in her mind. She decided to focus on speed and ambidexterity.

Thud-thud-thud. Three arrows, right hand draw. Switch.  
Thud-thud-thud. Three arrows, left hand draw. Switch.  
Thud-thud-thud. Three arrows, right hand draw. Switch.  
Thud-thud-thud. Three arrows, left hand draw. Switch.  
Thud-thud-thud. She hadn’t practiced like this since leaving Denerim. Switch.  
Thud-thud-thud. Mamae had been there, tossing the willow hoop targets. Switch.  
Thud-thud-thud. Quiet mornings in the lavender fields. Switch.  
Thud-thud-thud. They had practiced together since she was twelve. Switch.  
Thud-thud-thud. Mamae had started teaching her the bow after the slavers took da. Switch.  
Thud-thud-thud. The healers from Tevinter who weren’t healers at all. Switch.  
Thud-thud-thud. Mamae’s smile was never the same. Switch.  
Thud-thud-

Out of arrows. Damn.

“I’ve never seen anyone shoot a bow like that. Where did you learn?” A voice at her elbow startled her. Ayla spun on her heel to find herself face to face with Leliana, purple hood hiding her face and hands clasped behind her back.

“I apologize. You were very focused, I’m glad that I waited until you were out of arrows.” Leliana said.

“Sorry. I should have been paying more attention.” Ayla clutched her bow with both hands, holding it level with the ground in front of her and staring at the grip, “It’s based on Dalish shooting, which focuses more on hunting, but I emphasized on trick shots so the style adapted from there.”

“I can’t imagine there is much good hunting in Denerim.” Leliana smiled.

“No, there is not.” Ayla curled her toes in her boots.

“Do you find it very practical on the battlefield?” Leliana arched one perfectly shaped cinnamon red brow.

“I haven’t died yet, I suppose.” Ayla wasn’t really sure how to answer that question. The most dangerous thing she’d ever shot before coming to Haven had been pigeons, and a few rats whenever food was scarce in the alienage.

“But you did end up, ah, how did Varric put it? ‘Crushed under a darkspawn like tits in an Orlesian gown.’”

“Yes,” Ayla looked up at Leliana, “But I didn’t die.”

“That is true, but there will be many more battles ahead.” Leliana’s lips curved up, but the smile was cold.

“I thought we were going to Val Royeaux to talk peace.” Ayla squeezed her bow, her whole body tense.

“Sometimes you must go in with a fist before you can offer an open hand.” Leliana said, “You should be ready.”

“Then...what do you suggest?”

“Ready yourself to kill again.” Leliana said, as if it was simple. As if it was easy. As if she wasn’t talking about taking another life, making someone else carry the same pain and heartbreak Ayla bore.

“I cannot.” Ayla shook her head.

“You must.” Leliana laid a hand on Ayla’s shoulder, “I promise you, it will become easier.”

“I don’t think I want it to.” Ayla released the death grip on her bow and slid her hand into her pocket, stepping away from Leliana, “But--thank you.”

“Of course.” Leliana clasped her hands once more behind her back.

“Do you, do you have scouts in Denerim?” Ayla asked.

“I wouldn’t be much of a spymaster if I did not, now would I?” Leliana smirked.

“Could you get a letter to someone in the alienage?”

“Easily, who is the letter to?”

“My friend, Sammen Alberts.” Ayla drew the letter from her pocket and offered it to Leliana.

“I will ensure it gets there.” Leliana took the letter gently, securing it in some hidden pocket of her armor.

“Thank you.” Ayla nodded, “I should get back to practice.”

“Before I go, Josie would like to have some time to discuss the politics of Orlais with you. Val Royeaux is beautiful, but it can be dangerous for the unprepared.”

“I can come by her office sometime tomorrow?” Ayla offered, “Perhaps around noon?”

“I will let Josie know.” Leliana nodded, seeming satisfied, “Don’t be late, you do not want Josephine hunting you down for a missed appointment. Trust me.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Ayla said, and then after thinking added, “And for the talk.”

“You are welcome.” Leliana nodded and left, her watchful eye on the other practicing scouts as she made her way back to Haven.

Ayla retrieved her arrows from the target and made her way back to the firing line. Somehow, knowing the letter was on its way to Sammen eased her nerves. Perhaps this time she would focus on accuracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There isn't actually a washbasin in the Herald's cabin in Haven, but there should be.
> 
> So...headcanons for how the focus bar works, anyone? Probably the least mysterious part of DAI and I decided it needed half a chapter. WELP. Ayla only feels a slight fizz because before encountering Corypheus, the Inquisitor doesn't have any focus related abilities.
> 
> All Elvhen from Project Elvhen by FenxShiral  
> Translations:
> 
> Ma melava halani: Phrase meaning thank you. Unlike many of my cobbled together phrases, this was a phrase created by FenxShiral, from their definition: An elvish idiom essentially meaning, “You have spent your time to help me.” Archaic and intimate. Rarely spoken to those who are not very close friends, family, or lovers. 
> 
> Ma telir da’nua: You are only a little trouble
> 
> Ma nuvenin: As you say
> 
> So when I write Solas fighting with Ayla, whenever he realizes he's been too harsh he usually says something in Elvhen to her, this time he specifically uses her name after calling her Herald of Andraste. But he also slips in an older use of Elvhen to see what she will make of it. I think sometimes he's not wholly convinced she is who she says she is.
> 
> Ayla, of course, learning Elvhen from a modern speaker, takes what Solas says as it's literal meaning, so that's what she's responding to.
> 
> Crushed like tits in an Orlesian gown is probably the best thing I'm going to write. You should probably stop reading now, we've peaked. Things are only downhill from here. (Just kidding, please don't stop reading...)
> 
> I have watched so many archery videos and read so many articles in creating Ayla. I hope it comes across that she is very, very good with a bow. There also aren't any soldiers practicing archery in Haven, but there should be. This is probably more important than a washbasin.


	15. When the Blood Lies Thick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Cullen share a drink and talk about Kirkwall.

Varric had spent much of his evening down in Haven’s smithy, tinkering with Bianca. Harritt and his apprentices largely ignored Varric’s presence, which he appreciated. People, stories and conversation were important, but sometimes a dwarf just needed to focus on his work.

It was late evening by the time he got Bianca back into tip-top fighting shape. He’d been down to the archery fields to fire a few test rounds and was satisfied with his results. Even though he was already thinking of improvements and tweaks he wanted to try, especially if he could get his hands on those half-quarter gears. Hopefully Bianca, the real Bianca, would come through.

Varric trudged through the snow on the damnable long hike back to the Singing Maiden from the training grounds. Normally one for ale, the cold mountain night had him dreaming about a mug of mulled wine to warm his belly. The practice fields were deserted, or so he had thought, until Varric spotted a silhouette by the trebuchets, illuminated from behind by the warm glow of Harritt’s cabin. He knew that furry cowl anywhere.

“Checking the trebuchets for apostates, Cullen?” Varric asked in his most jovial tone.

“They do tend to crawl out of the woodwork in my experience.” Cullen replied dryly.

“Why Curly, what a surprise.” Varric laughed, “I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”

“I know. I read your book.” Cullen tested the ropes for the trebuchet sling, “Not the most flattering of portrayals.”

“I didn’t know templars could read.” Varric stuck to his teasing, Cullen was the sort of man who wound himself tight enough to snap. The commander needed some way to relax, a service Varric was always ready to provide via gentle prodding and good-natured teasing, “Or that they had such good taste in books.”

“Why is it everyone always thinks templars don’t read?” Cullen huffed while he tested the ratchet, “We read. Circles have books.”

“Probably because when someone tells a templar to use their heads, they normally use them for a battering ram.” The ratchet was giving Varric ideas and he squatted down beside Cullen and poked it, eyeballing the locking mechanism.

Cullen let out a long suffering sigh before he said anything.

“Either way, I’m not a templar any more. I left that life behind when I left Kirkwall.” He sounded tired. The kind of weariness that comes from the heart and settles into the spirit and bones.

“You ever talk to anyone about what happened?” Varric paused his examination of the ratchet to look up at Cullen’s face.

“I gave my report to Cassandra, but...no.” Cullen was lost somewhere, his eyes staring off into memories, “It’s not exactly an easy topic to discuss, and I weary of trying to explain what happened. What it was like to be there. How I could possibly have been knight-commander to Meredith.”

“Well, I was there.” Varric said it simply, an observable fact. Like the sky was blue or that there were two moons.

“That you were.” Cullen frowned at him.

“Care to join another veteran of Kirkwall for a drink?” Varric was sure that what the commander needed was a night off and a few beers. It was his go-to diagnosis for everyone. Probably because it worked most of the time.

“These trebuchets need calibrating.” Cullen answered with a nervous awkwardness. People probably didn’t invite templars out for a drink much, even ex ones, “The wood is still green and the rope’s gone loose on the counterweight. They’re hanging too low.”

“Don’t you have people for that?”

“It helps to keep busy.”

“Come on, Curly.” Varric pressed, “You spend too much time with that serious expression on your face. It’s bad for your health. And mine.”

“You’re not going to leave me alone until I say yes.” Cullen accused, accurately.

“You have me there.” Varric admitted.

“Alright, Varric. Have it your way.” Cullen rose, wiping his hands.

“See? I knew I could get through that armor.” Varric dusted of his own hands as he stood.

By the time Varric and Cullen arrived at the Singing Maiden, the tavern had entered the quieter hours of the night. Varric chose a more private table in one of the darker corners. The waitress brought their drinks, a steaming mug of mulled wine for both of them, and they sat in silence as they took their first sips.

Varric took in the appearance of the man across the table from him. Cullen had changed a lot since Kirkwall. He styled his hair more loosely, traded his hard pauldrons for softer fur, and wrapped himself in warm red instead of wearing his cold steel armor bare. The harsh, squinty, judgemental eyes were now tired and framed with bags, but somehow friendlier--if distant. Varric doubted anyone who had read _Tales of the Champion_ would recognize Cullen now.

“You hear about the Carta selling Red Lyrium to the templars?” Varric asked.

“Yes, as if I wasn’t already concerned about the rogue order.” The crease on Cullen’s forehead deepened, “Red Lyrium will only make them more dangerous.”

“I heard you were pushing to ally with the templars to close the Breach.”

“I would prefer conscription.” Cullen sipped his sweet wine with a bitter face.

“Trying to turn the Inquisition into the next Templar Order?”

“On the contrary. The Order needs to end. I had hoped the Inquisition would work towards that.”

“I’m shocked. I’m actually shocked. _You_ of all people want to disband the templars?” Varric was beginning to wonder if Cullen had been replaced by an abomination. That he would agree with Anders, _Anders_ the mage who blew up the Kirkwall Chantry to protest the circles. Varric was ready to accuse reality of taking poetic license.

“Templars are chained to the Chantry, fed lyrium until we’re addicted. You can’t _question_ anything when you’re on lyrium, either your mind is to addled or you’re too reliant on your source to go against them.” Cullen gripped his mug so hard his leather gloves squeaked, “I often wonder if I hadn’t been on lyrium if I would have seen what was happening in the Gallows for what it truly was.”

“You ended up on the right side in the end.” Varric felt bad for the man, redemption was not for the weak, “You saved a lot of lives siding with Hawke.”

“How many more would have been saved if I had _looked._ If I had _questioned_ what I was told, what excuses I made to convince myself we were in the right. Even when the evidence was stacked so high against us.” Cullen spoke as a man with a deep hatred for himself, “I look back on who I was during those ten years and I am ashamed.”

“Is that why you joined the Inquisition?”

“I want to atone.” Cullen confessed, “After--what happened, clearing rubble from the streets was not enough. It wouldn’t fix what was wrong, with Kirkwall, with the Chantry, with _me._ I hope to find it in the Inquisition. To not just clean up what happened, but to somehow do better.”

“So what’s your hope for, better?” Varric kept himself nonchalant. He really hadn’t expected Cullen to lay it all bare like this, but it felt good to know he wasn’t the only one struggling with Kirkwall.

“The only thing I know for certain is that I want the last templar to have taken their vows. I don’t know if the Order can be redeemed, or if it is even worth trying, but I will do everything I can to ensure that the Templar Order does not continue. Not the way it was.”

“And the mages?”

“The Circles need reforming. Perhaps more chances for mages to work outside of their towers, or giving them more freedom to oversee themselves.” Cullen shook his head and took another drink of his wine, “I’m certain they have suggestions of their own. Better ones. Something to make them be seen as people, to _feel_ like people. They’re not the monsters the Chantry likes to claim they are. But magic _is_ dangerous, and it does need to be controlled. I just don’t have any solutions to offer.”

“The world’s a mess. We’re all just trying to make the best of it.” Varric tried to chase the hopelessness out of his chest by finishing his wine and signalling the barmaid for more, “I wonder if I had paid more attention to Anders. Listened to him more, got him drunk more often. Done _more_ to find that idol after I found out what it did to Bartrand. But I can’t _do_ those things. The past is set, the future is uncertain.”

“We’re doomed to stumble around hoping our next choice isn’t a mistake.” Cullen drained his mug, “Maker help us.”

“You’re right. I did give an unflattering portrayal of you.” Varric shook his head. You didn’t know people until you _know_ people.

“Unflattering,” Cullen spoke, staring into the depths of his mug and considering a second cup, “But not untrue. I hope to become a better man.”

“You and me both, Curly.” Varric signaled the barmaid again, this time for Cullens cup, “You and me both.”

They drank until the Maiden closed, then stumbled their way to Varric’s tent where they found that, as most drunks do, any horizontal surface is impossibly comfortable.

By the time Varric awoke the next morning, Cullen was long gone and already the clang of swords rung over Haven. Kirkwall’s Guard Captain Aveline was the only other person Varric knew who was as dedicated to training their recruits. The Inquisition would be prepared, Varric didn’t have an inkling of what for, but prepared for it nonetheless.

Varric had his own preparations to see to. Josephine was finalizing the lease agreement on a townhouse in Val Royeaux and had somehow managed to procure a rather decent carriage all the way out in Haven. He envied her network, but she left him with one bronto-sized problem: How in the Maker’s wide-world was he going to be able to keep the peace when Cassandra, Solas, and Ayla were all going to be crammed into a carriage for a week?

The best solution was alcohol and cards. Since he doubted Cassandra would let him convert the carriage to a rolling tavern, the next best solution was adding another element. Someone who help buffer between some of the sharper points of everyone’s personalities. He knew just the woman for the job.

“Leliana, good morning.” Varric greeted the Inquisitions red-headed spymaster.

“Varric, it’s almost afternoon.” Leliana smiled and shook her head, “Don’t tell me you have something to do with why Commander Cullen was late to the war room?”

“But a little lower strung,” Varric grinned, proud of himself, “Or so I hope.”

“He _was_ being more reasonable,” Leliana’s smile turned to a smirk, “If only because he kept the yelling to a minimum.”

“Hey, a little progress is still progress.” Varric shrugged, “I’d say that means you owe me a favor.”

“Alright, say I do. What does one of the most famous writers in Thedas want from me?” Leliana laughed, a sound like bells rung by knives.

“You flatter me, but don’t act like you don’t have a few stories of your own.” Varric countered, “How would you like one more?”

“You want me to go to Val Royeaux with you, don’t you?” Leliana’s blue eyes sparkled from within her hood, “You think I can help keep the peace in the carriage.”

“I’m not even going to ask how you know that.” Every time he thought he had Leliana’s network figured out, he found out he was wrong.

“I read the scout reports from the Hinterlands. And even Cassandra has managed to notice.”

“So you understand the severity of the problem.”

“Alright, Varric, as a favor to you, I will accompany you to Val Royeaux.”

“This is the part where you tell me you were coming anyways, isn’t it?” Varric gave Leliana an appreciative smile, she was sly and he liked that in a human.

“Yes,” Leliana nodded, “It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how exactly you 'calibrate' a trebuchet. And I have built several trebuchets in my time. Naturally this involved watching several physics videos. For a joke. I spent an hour learning physics for a joke. About Mass Effect. In my Dragon Age fic. I'm mostly frustrated because this is not the first time I have learned physics for a gag. I need to make better life choices.
> 
> Bioware may have forgotten that Thedas has two moons, but I have not.
> 
> Right. So. I realize Cullen being so anti-templar isn't a typical fan characterization of him, but I based it on his reaction to conscripting the templars after Champions of the Just over allying with them and what he has to say if the Inquisitor talks to him about becoming a templar (I actually remember him telling my Inquisitor that if they must do it, let them be the last to do so, but I can't find that dialogue online). He's really not fond of the Order, but he has a heart for the men and women who are suffering through the same things he is. I wanted to push that forward a little more so it wasn't buried under conversation only warriors can have with him. Really, if you haven't talked to him as a warrior considering the templar specialization, I highly recommend looking up youtube videos about it for some good insight about his opinions on the Order.
> 
> I also really wanted to know what Cullen and Varric talk about, and I realized it was probably their time in Kirkwall because they're the only two people they can talk to about Kirkwall without explaining Kirkwall.
> 
> If I'm not careful, this fic is just going to end up becoming different POVs talking about how awesome Leliana is.
> 
> I'm trying to slip in more character descriptions so that it doesn't feel like it stands out so much when I talk about what ocs look like. I know most people reading a DA fanfic know what Varric or Cassandra look like, but it feels weird to only describe Sammen or Hawke or Cousland. So I started by not describing anybody and am now backtracking a bit with something I should have done when I introduced characters. Like someone who knows how to write. Oops.
> 
> Thank you all for reading ♥


	16. I Have Found There Ain’t No Surer Way to Find Out Whether You Like People or Hate Them Than to Travel With Them - Mark Twain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas and Leliana get to know each other better on the road to Val Royeaux and Solas has a horrible revelation about himself.

The carriage rocked softly as it carried the companions down the road to Val Royeaux. Solas set the book he had been reading on his lap and rubbed his eyes. The interior of the carriage was quiet. Varric dozed comfortably in a seated position and Ayla was leaning against Leliana, her head rested on the spymaster’s shoulder. For her part, Leliana was gazing out the window, chin rested on her hand. Cassandra had taken a turn riding with the driver as guard, a position she seemed to prefer as their carriage driver was as silently stoic as she was. Solas couldn’t even recall if the driver had spoken again after introducing himself as Johnson.

The first few days on the road had been uncomfortable. More so than the journey to the Crossroads due to the carriage limiting their space. They had initially been staying at inns, but as they had journeyed further into Orlais it had become more prudent for a dwarf, an elven apostate, and a woman with a glowing hand to sleep in tents. For as much as Orlais considered itself the cultural center of the world, it took a dim view on non-humans and magic. Sleeping on the ground was preferable to the inhospitable stares that met them in the small villages and hamlets along the road.

“Something on your mind, Solas?” Leliana had turned her attention from the window to him.

“I was just thinking how pleased Chancellor Roderick must be that he finally got his wish.” Solas replied, placing a marker in his book and closing it.

“I suppose that is true.” Leliana laughed. She was a charming woman, despite the air of dangerousness that hung around her. Or, perhaps, because of it. Solas wondered what she was like before something broke her faith, she must have been irresistible, “We are taking Ayla to Val Royeaux to stand trial in the public eye. I only hope that the those that remain in the Chantry will see reason.”

“Or that those watching will be so taken with our Herald that it will not matter.” Solas said, “One would assume.”

“Yes, there is more than one way to dance a fete, as they say.” Leliana’s blue eyes flashed with interest, “You have a remarkable knowledge of politics for an apostate, Solas.”

“One does not remain both an apostate and alive if they do not have some understanding of these things, Nightingale.” Solas smiled to himself. Speaking with Leliana was like playing a high stakes game of chess, and he quite enjoyed the thrill, “I may have avoided city centers and large towns, but I observed from the safety of the Fade.”

“I imagine you can learn much from the dreams of a marquise.” Leliana shifted, careful not to disturb Ayla, “You wouldn’t be interested in becoming one of my agents?”

“I am not in the habit of invading the dreams of others.” Solas said, amused, “Much of what I learn is more from the historic record. Events so large, the spirits watching press close to the Veil until it wears thin, then spend their hours recreating what they saw.”

“Is that why spirits that pass through the Veil are so violent? They are in the midst of recreating a battle?”

“Have you encountered many spirits before the Breach?” Solas folded his hands on top of the book in his lap.

“I was with the Wardens when they went to the Dalish clan in the Brecilian Forest to secure their aid during the Blight. There were many violent spirits there, but also spirits at peace.” Leliana’s interest in spirits seemed contrary to the teachings of the Chantry she served, but one does not rise to the position of spymaster without questioning what they are told.

“Passing through the Veil is often a traumatic experience for a spirit, few are able to understand what has happened to them and can only express their confusion and pain as rage.” Solas explained. It was one of the many, many failings of the Veil.

“Or poetry.” Leliana’s lips quirked with her words.

“Poetry?” Solas widened his eyes with mild surprise.

“You are familiar with sylvans, yes? Spirits that possess trees instead of bodies.” Leliana waited for him to nod before continuing, “We met a sylvan in the woods that spoke only in rhyme. It was cute.”

“I am surprised you found one self possessed enough to speak with you, never mind rhyme.” Solas made a mental note to visit the Brecillian Forest when time allowed.

“It was actually quite helpful,” Leliana smiled, a rare enough expression on her cold face, but this one even rarer still, Solas noted, as it  came with a twinkle in her eyes, “And we encountered another spirit there, one I think of often. She was known as the Lady of the Forest, but as I have learned more of spirits, I wonder if she was not one of penance and forgiveness.”

“I thought the Chantry taught only of spirits of wrath, desire, sloth,...and pride.” Solas suppressed the secret desire to smile as he mentioned the last, and believed to be the most powerful, demon, and fixed his features with only simple, academic curiosity.

“Not...precisely.” Leliana’s features crossed as she wrestled with some internal question before she spoke again, “That is a gross simplification widely taught as cautionary tales. Perhaps to the greater disservice of the mages, but even the Chantry knows that the best healers are the ones that can call on the spirits of compassion, of hope, and of all the gentler things that rest within the heart, for aid. Spirit Mediums are rare, and closely guarded lest they fall prey to the demons that stalk the Fade.”

“You believe mages to be so weak?” Solas pressed, feeling the anger in the edges of his voice, “Magic is no different than a sword, it can be as easily wielded for justice as it can for vengeance.”

“I believe all the Makers children can be so weak.” Leliana turned her head and considered him from the corner of her eye with an ineffable expression, “How easily does our hope turn to desire, or our wisdom to pride.”

Leliana shook her head, Solas covered a nervous laugh with a cough.

“Swords meant to protect so quickly can turn to oppression and caution to fear. We are all weak, Solas.” Leliana sighed, “Yet only mages are punished for it. It should not be so. Maker willing, one day, it will not be so. That is the future Divine Justinia saw, and the dream I hope the Inquisition will see come true.”

“And if the Inquisition is worse than the current status quo?” Solas asked. It was easy to wonder what Leliana would do if she found herself in his shoes. It would be simple to say that she would have her change, through knives and blood if necessary, but what if the kinder, softer Leliana who briefly shown through the Nightingale’s steely-cold when she spoke of things like rhyming trees and hero wardens was in control?

“Then I try again. And again. And again. Until my body no longer draws breath.” Leliana set her lips in a thin, grim line.

Solas sighed. It was the obvious solution, and the path he was in no doubt about to head down. To try again. No matter what the cost. To steel himself over just as Leliana had. Yet even though she had affirmed his own decision, he found himself disappointed. A small, tiny, glimmer of hope still wanted another way. A more clever solution, more elegant. Something the average intellect wouldn’t see. Something worthy of even the Dread Wolf. A trick that would raise him from perdition and circumvent the need for suffering.

If there was such a play to be made, Leliana didn’t know it. Her devotion without faith offered no solutions.

“A very tenacious mindset.” Was all he said.

“It is a gift and a curse,” Leliana said coyly, “But what of you? What is it you hope to find with the Inquisition?”

“My only aim is to heal the Breach.” Solas replied, “The Inquisition is, in my estimate, still the best positioned to do so and so I will continue to lend my aid.”

“And after the Breach has been closed?” Leliana pressed.

Solas’s eyes darted to Ayla’s face, peaceful in sleep and there was a flutter in his chest.

“You believe our efforts will be successful then?” He tried to divert Leliana’s attention...and his own. _What was that?!_ He _could NOT_ afford attachments. Of any kind. It would only make his path harder and served no purpose.

“Call me an optimist.” Leliana’s eyes sparkled again. _Fenedhis lasa._ She had caught him.

“Then I shall resume my studies of the Fade.” Solas said as cooly as he could manage.

“Preferably somewhere far away from Chantry oversight.” He added, somewhat awkwardly. This conversation needed to end. Soon.

“Nothing has changed for you?” Leliana pointedly looked down where Ayla lay against her shoulder.

“No.” Solas said with a firmness he did not feel as solidly as before, “Many things have changed, but my decision remains the same.”

“The mighty oak falls, but the reed survives the storm.” Leliana said, softly as if she wasn’t speaking to him anymore.

“Pardon?” Solas asked, curious.

“It was something my friend used to say.” Leliana’s eyes were lost in the past, “Usually right before she did something foolish, unexpected...and yet, somehow, effective. She always knew just the right thing to do because she always listened and adjusted. Even when it flew in the face of something she had always known.”

“Your friend sounds fun.” Varric said, stretching and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“I think she would like you, Varric.” Leliana said, “Persephone has a soft spot for storytellers and liars.”

“If even a _quarter_ of the stories about the Hero of Ferelden are true, I think I’d like her. If _half_ are true, I know I would.” Varric laughed.

Varric’s awakening allowed Solas to retreat into silence as Leliana and Varric swapped tales about the Fifth Blight. Leliana correcting each preposterous story Varric had heard with more impossible details which she swore were the truth. Solas listened, grateful for the reprieve from Leliana’s watchful eyes (although he had no doubts she was still observing him, it was not the intense, single focus. He would have to be more mindful of himself around her in the future), and intrigued by the stories of Persephone Cousland. Although the Fade offered a few glimpses into the Ferelden Blight, it was scarce to recall details of the Warden herself, like she was a light too bright for the spirits to replicate, a blazing hole in their recording of histories. Solas could often find the effect of her passing, but not replications of _her_.

Stranger still were the spirits he met that had faced her in a dream. Even they could give no true account. They described her as being at once a mouse and then a lumbering golem. A spirit as they were, and a burning fire. All of which seemed doubly impossible since all he had learned of Persephone after awakening showed no indication that she had any magely talents. She should have been swept away by the dream.

Leliana’s additions to the tale of the Hero of Ferelden did little to make sense of it all. She seemed to be an anomaly in this sleeping world. He would not let outliers alter his course.

“Do I have something on my face?” Ayla was speaking to him, rubbing her cheeks trying to wipe away invisible mud. Had he really been staring at her this whole time?

Solas locked away a thousand feelings that had taken wing like butterflies deep in his chest.

“It would seem only your nose.” Solas said without expression. The line elicited a chuckle from Varric.

Ayla rubbed her eyes and then temples in frustration.

“Leliana,” she said, “How much further to Val Royeaux?”

“Only a day and a half's journey more.” Leliana answered.

“Perhaps Cassandra would like some company.” Ayla said.

“Perhaps she would not.” Cassandra’s voice came from outside the carriage.

“Ugh.” Ayla groaned and pointedly turned away from Solas to stare out the carriage window.

Again his heart fluttered, and he had to admit, there was...an _infatuation_. As long as it remained one sided it might be alright. Informative, even. And there seemed little chance she ever might...feel the same. He had already made sure of that. His own feelings would pass with time. It was likely a response to so many years spent solely in the company of spirits. Soon reason would reassert itself. It had to.

It _had_ to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before writing this chapter, I had never considered how Solas must view Leliana. He briefly, and callously, speaks about Leliana's broken faith to the Inquisitor. But I would think he might see more of himself in her, at times. Or at least identify with her crisis. At on point, Solas must have had great faith in the Evanuris, and then something happened that made him lose it. She must make him feel uncomfortable because she reminds him of what he must become, more weapon than person. At least, that's what I think he believes is the best course of action when he says "harden your heart to a cutting edge."
> 
> I'm more in camp "A mind all logic is like a knife all blade. It makes the hand bleed that uses it." (Rabindranath Tagore). Which is probably one of the themes that'll get brought up again. It also, to me, seems like it would be more consistent with what Solas believes deep down, a guy who's favorite pastime is to hangout with embodiments of different emotions cannot possibly believe that logic free of passion is truly the right course. It's pretty sophomoric of him.
> 
> But sophomoric is a pretty accurate assessment of his character, I think, and part of what makes him compelling. At the heart of his character is a conflict between what he believes and what he thinks he must believe. Oddly, writing someone who's so certain that what they know is true and is so wrong about it was one of the most difficult things about doing Solas POV chapters and is now one of the more fun things.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for sticking with me so far ♥ On to Val Royeaux!


	17. Val Royeaux. If I can make it there, I can make it anywhere. (With apologies to Sinatra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The companions arrive in Val Royeaux and meet with the Chantry and learn what has happened with what remains of the Templar Order.

It was late morning when Ayla first saw the White Spire on the horizon like a needle stitching land to sky. She squinted and covered the Spire with her thumb, then jerked it aside revealing it again. Ayla repeated the motion several more times, winking the city in and out of existence, or so she pretended. She sighed, leaning against the carriage window and rested her head on her chin.

The carriage rolled through the outer city. What would have once been farmlands had given over to the city’s endless need for people to sustain it. A hunger that would be well fed as refugees from not one, but two wars continued to flock to the Orlesian capitol. They were the same as those who had come to Denerim during the Blight, their bodies speaking of incredible weariness but their existence alight by a fire of determination to _survive_. These were the people who would rebuild the world, if it came to that. Ayla stared into the Breach, the green swirling mists tinged the sky with colors beyond her vision. Her brain fizzed and she felt her hand flair.

“Ayla!” Sola’s snapped Ayla away from her thoughts, “Are you alright? Is there a rift nearby?”

Ayla clutched her hand and tore her eyes away from the hole in the sky. Daylight returned to the carriage as the green receded back into her fist. She breathed in, sucking air deep into her diaphragm and released it slowly.

“No, Solas. I’m fine, thank you.” She hid behind her favorite placid smile, “Just...staring at the Breach and thinking. I guess it must have resonated with the mark in some way.”

“May I?” He held out his hand, expectant. Ayla paused perhaps a moment too long before giving him her marked hand, she could feel Varric and Leliana’s eyes watching closely.

“Does this happen every time you look into the Breach?” Leliana asked, blue eyes glinting with curiosity.

“Ah, no. Although I don’t often stare into the Breach.” Ayla shrugged.

“It does seem much improved from when we first found you.” Leliana said.

“Slowed, perhaps, but not improved.” Solas corrected, examining the mark closely.

“Does that mean-” Varric started.

“That we have plenty of time to figure out how to close the Breach.” Ayla stated, taking her hand back from Solas and fixing him with a look that said ‘say anything and I’ll turn you into a pincushion.’ She wasn’t really sure, in the moment, why it was important that Varric and Leliana not know that the mark was killing her, but the urge for secrecy was compelling.

“It seems we are approaching the great Sun Gate.” Solas observed, “It is every bit as ostentatious as I had heard, perhaps even more so.”

“A show of power, wealth, and beauty.” Leliana replied, checking out the window, “Ah, how I’ve missed Val Royeaux.”

“I heard the gates can blind an attacking army in full daylight.” Varric was practically pressing his nose to the glass as he looked out the window.

“Useful, if armies only attacked during the day.” Ayla joined Varric trying to get a better view of the famous gates.

“Or on cloudless days.” Varric added.

“It is but one of the cities many defenses.” Leliana shrugged with nonchalants, but Ayla thought she looked a bit miffed.

“One might believe their true purpose is inspiring awe in visitors, allies, and trade partners.” Solas leaned aloof in his seat.

“That is a much better explanation.” Varric said, “Although not as good of a story.”

“Are there any stories of the gates actually blinding an attacking army?” Ayla asked, turning to Leliana.

“Not that I am aware of, no.” Leliana frowned, “Strange to think of. Perhaps those who built the gates were looking for a practical excuse for their construction.”

“I’m sure that anyone who has the coin to build giant steel gates and then cover them in gold didn’t feel the need to justify them to anyone.” Varric laughed, “That’s the kind of thing that just _attracts_ stories, and has them made up even if they aren’t true. Some of the statuary around Kirkwall have endless superstitions, leave this here and your lover will propose, touch this there and you’ll have good luck in your next business deal, never do this at noon or the old magisters will stalk you in your dreams.”

“Stalk you in your dreams?” Solas repeated.

“Yeah, there used to be a pretty gruesome scene of Magisters bringing slaves to heel in the Gallows. There was a superstition that if you spit on a Magister, they’d stalk your dreams and give you nightmares.” Varric explained, “All completely untrue, of course.”

“How do you know?” Ayla asked.

“I dared Hawke to do it once. When they weren’t haunted in their dreams, Hawke spit on those statues every time we passed through the Gallows. Said she felt cheated not getting to face down the spirit of an ancient Tevinter Magister.” Varric chuckled.

“You left that part out of your book.” Leliana teased.

“Gotta save something for the taverns.” Varric winked, “I figured you would know that, Nightingale.”

“I have other ways of getting free drinks.” Leliana was charmingly enigmatic.

“Leliana.” Cassandra’s voice came from outside the carriage, “We are approaching the Sun Gate. I have no doubt that you and Josephine have some plan for how you want to announce the Inquisition.”

“Ah, yes of course. Perhaps we should pause and switch positions, Cassandra.” Leliana replied.

The carriage rolled to a stop and there was a brief moment while Cassandra climbed down and Leliana climbed up.

“Welcome back, Seeker.” Varric said as Cassandra took her seat, perched on the edge of it, gripping her pommel tight.

“Expecting trouble?” Solas asked.

“Always.” Cassandra said and stared hard out the window.

Cassandra had brought with her a tense silence when she entered the carriage, and the companions spoke little as they rolled through the massive gates and down the streets of Val Royeaux.

Ayla had always thought Denerim was big. It certainly was the largest Fereldan city. She was perfectly willing to admit that she had never traveled very far (nor truly ever expected to), but Val Royeaux was huge, it was massive, it was almost impossible to fit her head around.

For starters, it had _levels._ Where Denerim just went out, Val Royeaux went out _and up._ There were people shopping with vendors on the ground and up above. And everything was impossibly clean, it was almost unsettling. There was no mud, no garbage, just clean, sparkling white. Everyone wore shoes and shopkeeps and merchants waited quietly within their stores and booths instead of calling out their wares. It seemed less like a true city and more like what a noble’s fevered dream of what a city should be like. Though she scanned the crowds and looked as hard as she might, Ayla couldn’t even spot a beggar. They _must_ be somewhere, but not here. She remembered the stories Hahren Valendrian would tell about the alienage in Val Royeaux and how the sun didn’t reach even the uppermost leaves of the vhenadahl until midday. She wondered if all the city's 'undesirables' were similarly locked away.

The shops gave way to homes. Still everything was white and shined. The houses were tucked so tightly together that they all shared walls with tiled roofs that only grew grander as the carriage continued to roll down the cobbled streets. Ayla knew that Josephine had rented a townhouse in one of the more ‘fashionable’ sections of Val Royeaux, explaining in detail how it would better position them in ‘The Game’, but Ayla found herself actually getting nervous about _how_ nice this house might be.

When the carriage finally came to a stop, it was in front of one of those shining white domiciles. It’s roof painted blue, a color that seemed to be en vogue throughout the city. A gilded iron fence protected a small courtyard paved in a pattern of black and white stone cobbles bordered by a garden of blue irises and yellow lilies. The Inquisition banner was displayed above the door, flapping gently in the breeze. One of Leliana’s scouts waited to greet them in the drive.

“My lady Herald.” The scout greeted Ayla as she stepped down from the carriage, “The arrangements to meet with the Chantry mothers is almost finalized, but…”

“But.” Cassandra said, clearly ready for the other shoe to drop.

“...So do a great deal of templars.” The scout finished.

“There are templars here?” Cassandra asked in a neutral tone, it was impossible to tell what she was thinking.

“People seem to think the templars will protect them from…” The scout paused, nervously looking at Cassandra, “...from the Inquisition.”

“From _us?!”_ Cassandra tensed.

“Relax, Cassandra.” Leliana said hopping down from the carriage seat, “We expected that this might happen. The White Spire is the templar base of power, after all. That is why Josie arranged the meeting with the revered mothers to be as soon as possible, to keep our enemies off balance and control the spread of damaging rumors.”

“They are gathering in the market. I think that’s where the templars intend to meet you.” The scout reported.

“Then there is only one thing to do.” Cassandra said, beginning to stalk off toward the market before Leliana caught her arm.

“Take a moment, change our clothes, clean off the road and then meet with the mothers at the time we arranged?” Leliana said.

“I-” Cassandra paused and looked at Ayla, Solas, and Varric, “I see your point.”

This was the beginning of the Inquisitions debut into The Game, or so Ayla had been instructed. She kept her shoulders back and head high as she walked into the house, trying to exude grace and confidence to anyone who might be watching (and Josephine had assured her someone _would_ be watching). She walked into the house with purpose, keeping her steps even and unhurried. Power here was shown through grace and nonchalance. To always appear as smooth and serene  as a placid river winding it's lazy way through the valley. In this light, use of masks by the Orlesian aristocracy finally made sense to Ayla. What better way to hide emotion than to actually mask them.

Leliana and Josephine had decided against the use of masks for the Inquisition, however. The Chantry had refused to wear them as a symbol of being above the Game. Which, in itself, was playing the Game by pretending to be too powerful to need to play the Game. The Inquisition was seeking to legitimize itself through association with the late Divine, and by extension, the Chantry. So dispensing with masks was a logical move, even if it did place them all at a handicap. And, on a more personal note, as as born Fereldan, Ayla couldn't shake the feeling that donning a mask would have been unspeakably traitorous.

Ayla stepped across the threshold and paused as her eyes adjusted from the bright sunshine outside to the indoor light. The black and white pattern of the cobbles outside was repeated in marble floor of the foyer. Heavy blue curtains patterned with gold framed the windows, white bouquets of peonies sat in cut crystal vases on expensive looking wood tables, perfuming the air. Tapestries hung on the high walls, depictions of the life of Andraste, carefully chosen to reinforce the legitimacy of the Inquisition by Divine Justinia’s order. The house staff lined the foyer to greet them. Josephine had explained the careful selection process that she and Leliana had used to place not only their own people on the staff, but known spies from other players in Orlais because it was just as valuable to know who you _couldn’t_ trust as well as who you could. The downside, of course, was that Ayla would always have to be watching what she was say and to who. For Ayla, that was actually the easy part. It was one of her most practiced survival skills.

“Lady Herald.” One of the men stepped forward. An elf, dark hair meticulously oiled and parted, his livery well pressed and shoes shined. He was, in a word, neat. “I am Tailor, please, let me show you to your quarters.”

“Thank you, Tailor.” Ayla said after glancing at Leliana for affirmation. Leliana nodded, Tailor was one of hers.

He lead her up stairs of wrought iron twisted in the shapes of flowers, down a short hallway, and ushered her into a room. Josephine might have called the room size modest, but the entire shack Ayla had grown up in would fit in here. Roof and all.

“I hope your accommodations are suitable, if you require anything, simply pull the rope by the door.” Tailor said, giving her a short bow before he exited, closing the door and leaving Ayla alone for the first time in weeks.

She wandered around the room, taking it in. Polished wood floors, white plaster, crisp linens, she had seen grander rooms in bigger castles. Sammen and her performances had allowed them into some lavish places. She wasn’t enough of a rube to think this was the height of luxury, but it sure beat a dank Chantry basement. The jail cells in Val Royeaux were probably worse than the ones in Haven, so this bedroom was far above and removed from where Ayla had expected to be quartered here. Of course, it was fully possible that she’d still see the inside of a cell before this trip was over. They all might.

Ayla began peeling off layers of clothing until she was down to her breast band and poured water from the pitcher into the basin. She wetted a cotton cloth and began washing away the trip to Val Royeaux. The water was warm and scented with orange blossoms, Ayla felt her muscles relaxing as she scrubbed away at her skin.

_Mamae would have loved this._

The thought bubbled forth in her mind. She held it, though it stung. What _if_ mamae was here. Mamae would have gone to the window immediately, finding the blind spots. Then she would have picked two or three places to hide, _then_ she would have bathed. She had always believed forewarned was forearmed, even when things in the alienage were relatively peaceful. It was a habit that had kept their family together for years, it had protected them from nobles, hidden Mary from the Chantry for six years, and diverted so many other troubles. Mamae had probably already thought of the plan to find a Dalish clan before Mary had even come home.

Ayla wiped tears out of the corners of her eyes. Her heart still ached, but it wasn’t as debilitating as it had been. She wasn’t sure if it was because the pain was growing more distant or if it was because this time she had seized the hurt and took control of it. She actually hoped it was the latter, her pain was a mark that mamae had left on the world and she couldn't bear the thought of that disappearing too.

Pulling her tunic over her head, Ayla walked over to the window to find the blind spots and scanned the room for the best places to hide. It was comforting, like mamae was still here, still protecting her.

Finished in her room, Ayla followed the route Tailor had taken her backwards to get back to the foyer. Cassandra would want to leave as soon as possible, but she was unsure who else would be joining them in speaking with the Chantry...and it seemed the templars. It would be best to avoid conflict altogether, Commander Cullen still had hope that the templars would be of aid to the Inquisition in closing the Breach. Not Ayla’s first choice for allies, not even her last choice for allies. But if they were the only hope for the world to even just keep _being_ then she was willing to push through her own fears and anxieties to do what was needed to close the Breach. And deal with what that meant after. One problem at a time.

It would be easier to make allies if speaking with the templars did not come to blows, best not to arrive with a force, like they were expecting trouble. But if it _did_ turn into a fight, it had better be a fight the Inquisition won. More than the Chantry or the templars, they needed the _people_ behind them. Showing that the Inquisition was strong enough to protect the people, either through their diplomacy _or_ their martial force, was the first step in gaining popular support. Which is what they needed more than anything, more than scouts, more than gold, more than soldiers, the Inquisition needed the crowd on their side. Ayla knew that like she knew her own name.

Leliana’s people had already been here, doing their work gathering information and advancing the Inquisitions cause from the shadows. If they had time, if the Breach wasn’t a looming deadline for catastrophe literally hanging over all their heads, it would have been good to get promoters here first. Get people on their side _before_ meeting with the Chantry so they weren’t going into this without an established base. Get storytellers into the taverns because, as much as she hated where this was going, a woman tumbling out of the Fade with a glowing hand who slowed the Breach was the kind of legend people wanted to be a part of. People would want to tell the story about the day they saw the Herald of Andraste face down the Chantry. There was little that could be done about that now.

Ayla made the decision to get more involved with the war council. She had been resisting it, but if she was going to do this, she should do it right. Or, at least, if not right, her way. Politics, wars, peace, power, they were all about giving a show, and that's what she was best at. Leliana, Josephine, and Commander Cullen were just all performers in their own way, acting on the stage and playing their roles as diplomat spymaster, and commander. But they had no script, no outline for their play, no idea how to get an audience. They seemed to generally agree on the outcome they wanted, but had no idea how to get there and each seemed entrenched in how to accomplish their vision within their own talent pool. The dancers danced and the drummers drummed, but it was not to the same tune.

Ayla's mind was whirring as a plan like a vision formed, swirling colors that weren't quiet a picture yet. But she was becoming sure of one thing, she needed to lead. This course of action would unfortunately mean that she would have to weigh in on the templar vs. mage ally debate. It would probably be in her best interest to do some frontman work for that as well, she wasn’t exactly sure her opinion would stop the circular arguments or intensify them. With her luck, it would be the latter and involve even more yelling.

Cassandra descended the stairs into the foyer and breaking Ayla from her thoughts. The Seeker was looking much fresher than she had. Her braided crown was no longer a halo of raven hair and she had changed into a tunic free of sweat. Her hand was at the ever ready sword at her hip, as if she expected enemies to jump out of the drapery. Hopefully Leliana’s people had already eliminated any enemies in the drapery, but it was actually difficult to imagine Cassandra ever being at ease. Ayla had trouble even picturing her without her sword.

“If you are ready, I am anxious to leave.” Cassandra said by way of greeting.

“We should bring Solas and Varric.” Ayla said, somewhat rushed.

“I would have thought you to be desirous for some time away.” Cassandra was taken aback.

“Perhaps, but there will be time for that later.” Ayla explained, “I’m concerned about the templars gathering.”

“Are you expecting trouble?” Cassandra set her jaw and gripped her sword.

“No. I am hoping the talks are peaceful, but if they are not…” Ayla trailed off.

“We can bring a larger force, there are Inquisition agents enough stationed here.” Cassandra responded.

“I think it would be best if it didn’t look like we were trying to start a fight.” Ayla shook her head, “You, I, Varric, and Solas have become...efficient as a team. And with only four of us it won’t appear as if we are there to cause trouble.”

“I see.” Cassandra paused to consider this, “I think Josephine would be proud to have found such an apt pupil. I have no patience for The Game, but I believe your proposed course of action to be wise.”

“Thank you, Cassandra.” Ayla offered her a smile, “That means a lot coming from you.”

“I…” Cassandra actually _blushed_ , Ayla could scarcely believe it, “Of course.”

“Would you mind collecting Solas? I’ll go see Varric.” Ayla continued, trying to be kind and not flustering Cassandra too much.

“Of course.” Cassandra nodded, disappearing back up the stairs.

It was then Ayla realized there was a flaw in her plan. She had no idea where Varric was. Well, she could go back upstairs and randomly start knocking on doors...or...yes! There! A rope like Tailor had showed her in her own quarters by the landing. Ayla gave it a solid tug and waited. It was only a few moments before Tailor reappeared.

“Did you need something, Mademoiselle Adalen?” He asked.

Ayla blinked for a moment, taken aback by how Tailor had addressed her.

“Uh,” She started to recover, “I’m looking for Master Tethras?”

“Of course, if you would follow me.” Tailor nodded his head towards her and started up the stairs. Ayla hurried after him as he lead her once more down the hallway, stopping at the very last door.

“These are the quarters assigned to Master Tethras.” Tailor gestured to the door with a bow, “If he is not within, may I suggest trying the library? It’s located downstairs, through the foyer and to the left.”

“Thank you, Tailor.” Ayla replied, automatically dipping into a deeper curtsey.

“It was no trouble.” Tailor said smiling, “And if I may, Mademoiselle-you are the Herald of Andraste. You should bow to none but the Maker.”

Tailor took his leave, gliding smoothly down the hallway and disappearing down the stairs.

He was probably right, of course. It was so opposite of her past experience, though...and an elf-blood from the alienage suddenly taking on airs? A wave of nausea punched her in the gut like a darkspawn. She shrugged it off, and set the problem on the growing pile of things she would have to solve later, the flaw in this plan growing more evident. However, right now, Varric.

Ayla rapped on the door and waited.

“Can’t a dwarf get a moment’s shut eye around here?” Came the grumble from the other side. There was a thump and the padding of feet before the door cracked open, “Ayla! I was just settling into a nap, but I suppose I’ve got a minute for the Herald of Andraste.”

Ayla made a face.

“All right, all right. I can see you’re still not fond of the title.” Varric laughed, “What did you need, Ayla?”

“I was hoping you’d come with Cassandra, Solas, and I to meet with the Revered mothers?” Ayla was trying to get over her distaste for the title quickly.

“Looking to be ready for a fight without starting a fight.” Varric surmised, “Smart enough to be something _I_ would think of.”

“Thanks, Varric.” Ayla grinned.

“Yeah, I’ll come with you. I’ll admit I was itching to be there anyways.” Varric reached for Bianca and slung her to his back, “I can already tell it’ll be a big part of the story.”

“Cassandra mentioned something about you having written a book.” Ayla said as they walked down the hallway.

“Wait...are you telling me you _haven’t_ read ‘Tales of the Champion’?” Varric was in a state of shock.

“I’ve never actually read a book.” Ayla shrugged.

“But...you _can_ read, right?” Varric said with some concern.

“A little, I learned to read and write to keep in touch with my sister when she went to the Circle.” She explained, “But I’ve never had, you know, a whole book to read.”

“I’ll get you a copy. And a few other books that I think are must-reads. Only most of them are mine.” Varric was resolute, “And you can come to me with any difficult words. Or questions about the story. In fact, why don’t we read through some of these books together. I’ve been itching for a reason to re-read some of my favorites, anyways.”

“I...um...thank you, Varric.” Ayla wasn’t sure she had seen him so enthusiastic about something outside of Bianca before.

“I’ll see if the library here has anything worth the paper it’s printed on as soon as we get back.” Varric promised.

Solas and Cassandra were already waiting for them as they came down the stairs. Cassandra was clearly anxious to leave, pacing the floor. Solas waited with a practiced nonchalance, resting against his staff.

“There you are.” Cassandra said when she spotted them, “If everything is ready, we should go. The market is a short walk from here, it will be quicker to go by foot as the streets are crowded this time of day.”

“Of course, Cassandra.” Ayla nodded to her, “Lead the way.”

Cassandra had been correct. The walk to the market was indeed short. Ayla couldn’t tell if it had been wise, however. They had been met with stares and whispers as they made their way through the streets. One particularly dramatic well-dressed miss wearing long pheasant feathers and a white half-mask let out a frightened gasp and made to run only to be foiled by the guard rail of the bridge they were crossing and stood awkwardly with her back to them. Ayla tried not to laugh.

“Just a guess, Seeker, but I think they all know who we are.” Varric said.

“Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric.” Sarcasm dripped from Cassandra’s words like syrup from a honey-cake.

“It’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Ayla said as she craned her neck to watch what the dramatic woman would do next and smiled at the lady when she looked their way. The woman scurried off, holding her skirts out of her way as she practically ran to the other side of the bridge. Ayla waved at her when she looked back over her shoulder at them, causing the woman to scurry even further away, pheasant feathers bobbing ridiculously above the crowd.

“The first step at being liked is being known.” Ayla said, turning her attention back to the companions.

“Then we shall be known.” Cassandra strode across the square with purpose.

“Cassandra, slow down!” Ayla hurried to catch up, “The scouts have done their best to inform us what we might run into, but with the templars… Perhaps we should approach slowly and take the opportunity to assess the situation?”

“The templars with the Chantry? Against us?” Cassandra suddenly halted her progress across the square. Her cheeks flickered with controlled outrage. Apparently the presence of the templars was bothering her more than she had previously let on.

“It’s not wholly unexpected.” Ayla lay a gentle hand on Cassandra’s forearm, the Seeker’s entire body was tense enough to snap, “It would be more suspicious if everything _did_ go smoothly.”

“But I didn’t expect the templars to make an appearance.” Cassandra shifted her weight, irritated.

“The people could just be assuming the templar’s intentions.” Ayla reminded her, “Leliana’s people found no concrete plans.”

“You think the Order’s returned to the fold, maybe?” Varric offered, “To deal with us upstarts?”

“I know Lord Seeker Lucius.” Cassandra shook her head, “I can’t imagine him coming to the Chantry’s defense, not after all that’s occurred.”

“Then it’s a good thing Leliana is waiting for us back at the townhouse.” Ayla smiled, “It’s a good thing we didn’t come alone, or unprepared.”

They continued across the market to where a wooden platform had been constructed. A crowd was gathering, full of whispers calling the Inquisition upstarts and claiming the templars would protect them. Ayla squared her shoulders and made an entrance with Cassandra, Varric, and Solas doing their part to bring up the rear.

A handful of clerics and Revered mothers faced the crowd, flanked by a only few templars. The templars could be representing the rest of the Order-or they could just as easily be those that remained faithful to the Chantry when the templars had split off. One of the mothers was already addressing the crowds as Ayla approached.

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!” The Revered mother that seemed to be leading those of the Chantry shouted, “Together we mourn our Divine. Her naive and beautiful heart silenced by treachery!”

Ayla had a distinctly bad feeling, the sort that told her to get out before the crowd turned against her. That was not an option here, so she stood firm.

“You wonder what will become of her murderers.” The mother continued, “Well, wonder no more! Behold the so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed!”

The crowd turned to see how she would react. Ayla kept her posture open, welcoming, friendly yet powerful. The clerics weren’t pulling any punches. Well, she was used to dodging.

“Pardon my confusion, Revered Mother.” Ayla spoke soft and low so the crowd had to be quiet to hear her, “I thought we had agreed to meet for peaceful talks. If I had known you meant it to be a battle of wits, I would have refused-I am an honorable woman and would not fight with someone so unarmed.”

There were snickers through the crowd. Ayla heard Varric choke back a laugh behind her and she could practically feel Cassandra’s eyes burning a hole through the back of her head. The Revered Mother looked positively apoplectic. Ayla gave her an easy smile.

“We are in crisis and you jest!” The mother spat, pointing accusingly. The crowd swiveled to face Ayla again.

“Ah, so you _were_ serious about dealing with the real threat.” Ayla shook her head and shrugged in an exaggerated sign of relief, “Then let us set aside this mummer’s farce and sit together and talk. The Inquisition wishes nothing more than to put an end to this maddness-not be a source of it.”

Ayla punctuated her sentence with a suggestive brow waggle toward the mother. This got her another laugh from the crowd.

“It is true!” Cassandra stepped forward, “We seek to restore peace, before it is too late!”

Their exchange was cut short by the thundering sound of marching armored boots. A squad of templars approached them from the direction of the White Spire.

“It is already too late!” The mother pointed at the approaching templars, excited. The battle had turned in her favor, “The templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this ‘Inquisition,’ and the people will be safe once more!”

The templars approached the platform and climbed up on it. The leader, an older man with slicked back grey hair and a nose that reminded Ayla of the steep roofs on castle towers, ignored the mother completely. The mother’s excitement at seeing the templars dulled, but did not vanish completely. Ayla could already tell this was about to get even uglier, she hoped she could stop it from coming to blows.

But she never got the chance.

One of the templars sucker punched the mother in the jaw and she went down like a drunk at closing time. Ayla shifted her stance from open and friendly to strong and protective as the crowd gasped, some of them even shifting to stand behind the Inquisition. The templar leader paid the drama unfolding behind him no mind and spoke privately to one of the templars who had been guarding the Chantry clerics when they had arrived in the square. The young templar had been ready to leap into action when the mother had been attacked, but settled into unease when the grey-haired man touched the young templar’s arm.

“Still yourself.” The templar leader said, speaking loud enough for the crowd to clearly hear him, “She is beneath us.”

“Have the templars broken with basic civility along with the Chantry now?” Ayla called back, her voice hard.

“Her claim to ‘authority’ is an insult. Much like your own.” The templar leader sneered. If he had been wearing a cape, Ayla swore he would have flourished it as he made his exit from the platform. He was strangely theatrical for a military man.

“Lord Seeker Lucius, it’s imperative that we speak with-” Cassandra started, moving to speak with the man.

“You will not address me.” Lucius said, ignoring Cassandra in a manner that let everyone watching _know_ he was ignoring her. Ayla felt like she had been sucked into an Orlesian play, but Cassandra was unaware.

“Lord Seeker?” Cassandra said, genuinely confused and still walking to Lucius. It was the first time Ayla had seen Cassandra appear so...innocent. Like a fawn who had wandered onto a battlefield. Ayla moved beside her to protect Cassandra, she was clearly not ready for this sort of fight. It had the added benefit of again placing the Inquisition between the templars and the gathered crowd, strengthening their role as protectors.

“Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet. You should be ashamed.” Lucious growled as he walked, always making sure he turned so his back was never toward the crowd like a seasoned actor, “You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!”

Lucious looked righteously indignant, but Ayla caught the look of glee that flashed in his eyes. This man was clearly enjoying being the center of attention, and doing a bold job of it. He was wasted in the templars, clearly the theatre had been his calling.

“You are the ones who have failed!” Lucious continued, on a roll, “You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

Ayla could admit, Lucious was good at playing a role, but she was better at playing a crowd. No words could sway the Lord Seeker, his mind was clear, but he was not the only one here to make an appeal to.

“What Thedas truly needs is an alliance to seal the Breach.” Ayla replied. He was determined to put himself forward to greatness, but she knew that ever person in the market listening was the hero of their own tales, and what they would want was for their tales to not end with being swallowed by a hole in the sky. Herald, heretic, luckless mark of fate, whatever else may be true, Ayla  _did_ believe the Inquisition had the best chance of fixing the Breach.

“Oh, the Breach is indeed a threat. But you certainly have no power to do anything about it.” Lucious’s line was a good one, too bad for him it was undercut by the young templar who had been seen standing with the Chantry mothers.

“But Lord Seeker...what if she really was sent by the Maker?” The young man asked, his own doubts about Lucious’s claim being sowed in the crowd with his questions, “What if-?”

“You are called to a higher purpose!” The templar who had punched out the Revered mother spoke, “Do not question!”

“I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void. We deserve recognition, Independence!” Lucious attempted to take control of the narrative again, “You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition...less than nothing.”

Ayla kept a calm strength on the outside, but was inwardly grinning. Lucious was handing her the crowd on a silver platter. The people of Val Royeaux were for the templars, so long as the templars were for the people of Val Royeaux.

“Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!” Lucious called out, pronouncing Val Royeaux with a sneer, and left the market. His exit was heralded by the same drum of marching armor that had announced his entrance. He probably didn't even realize he had just handed the Inquisition one of the Order's greatest strengths. They would not stand long if they stood alone.

“Charming fellow, isn’t he?” Varric said as they regrouped, the crowd was already dispersing as small groups murmured about what they had just seen. By tonight the story of what had happened here would be all over the city.

“Has Lord Seeker Lucious gone mad?” Cassandra was still staring after the last shine of templar armor disappearing through the market gates in total disbelief of what she had just witnessed.

“How well do you know the Lord Seeker, Cassandra?” Ayla asked making her way back to the platform to see if the Revered mother needed help.

“He took over the Seekers of Truth two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death.” Cassandra said as she followed Ayla, “He was always a decent man, never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is very bizarre.”

“Do you think it could have anything to do with the Red Lyrium?” Ayla asked.

“Let’s hope not.” Varric said, “Meredith’s public rantings were less...dramatic.”

“You noticed that too?” Ayla said.

“I have read more subtle villains in children’s stories.” Solas added.

“I almost feel I should write him a thank you note.” Ayla climbed onto the platform and approached the Revered mother, who was now awake but clutching her cheek where she’d likely have one hell of a bruise if left unattended.

“I do not understand.” Cassandra frowned, “The Lord Seeker is dangerous-and likely unhinged. He has made himself an enemy we should be wary of.”

“Yes, and now all of Val Royeaux knows that.” Ayla said.

“This victory must please you greatly, Seeker Cassandra.” The mother said with venom.

“We came here seeking only to speak with the mothers. This is not our doing, but yours.” Cassandra replied with conviction.

“And you had no part in forcing our hand?” The mother replied, “Do not delude yourself. Now we have been shown up by our own templars, in front of everyone. And my fellow clerics have scattered to the wind, along with their convictions.”

“If the wind can scatter them, those were not true convictions.” Ayla said gently as she knelt beside the mother.

“And still you mock me.” The mother replied.

“You make only enemies when you point with a blade.” Ayla kept her voice kind as she helped the mother to her feet.

“Just tell me one thing: Do you _truly_ believe you are the Maker’s Chosen?”

“If we are the Maker’s children, then we are all his chosen.” Ayla deflected the question, “No true parent would favor one child over another.”

“I suppose it is out of our hands now.” The mother softened, “We shall all see what the Maker plans in the days to come. For you to be true, a great many things must be false. And if if you are false, a great many things must have failed. There is chaos ahead, whatever your intentions.”

“My only aim is to stop the chaos from being any greater than it needs be, and to help the hurt it leaves.” Ayla said, nodding to Solas who stepped forward, “Mother, will you let Solas heal your bruise?”

The mother nodded and Solas called up his magic, brighter and flashier than his normal heal spell, easily spotted by anyone still watching. The red mark left by the templar’s gauntlet faded and the mother visibly relaxed, her pain gone.

“What will the Chantry do now?” Ayla asked the mother, now that she’d recovered.

“We have already denounced the Inquisition, and look what it got us.” She replied, defeated, “Now it falls on us to select a new Divine, if we can, and leave the next step to her.”

“Provided such a selection is even possible.” Cassandra said.

“What becomes of us, and the Inquisition, is in the Maker’s hands now.” The mother said, “I take my leave of you. I hope against hope that you can do what you say you will.”

The mother left with the remaining clerics, headed back to the Chantry.

“We should head back too.” Ayla said, “Leliana probably already knows, but we should discuss our next move. As well as let Haven know what happened here.”

“Never thought I’d see the day when the _Chantry_ was removed as a player.” Varric said.

“We are in strange times, Master Tethras. Undoubtedly more change awaits us.” Solas replied as they began walking back to the townhouse.

“Let us hope it is for the better.” Ayla said, looking down at her mark and clenching her fist.

“That is the most any of us can do.” Solas said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♪Political Intrigue is my favorite♪
> 
> I am so pumped to be able to finally show off Ayla's particular skill set with this chapter. It was so much fun to write for me. Which is probably how it ended up so long. Sorry guys.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! I hope all y'all are having as much fun as I am ♥
> 
> Edit 10.23.18: Corrected some repeated words and punched up some of Ayla's growing thoughts on becoming Inquisitor. I seem to keep falling into the trap of using Ayla more as a narrator during her chapters rather than letting her tell her story. Ah well, that is what editing is for!


	18. Coming back to where you started is not the same thing as never leaving. -Terry Pratchett

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammen's hero's call plays out in Denerim's Alienage

It was early evening. The setting sun burning the sky in orange and pink and the alienage was wrapped in a blanket of eerie quiet. Sammen walked home from the docks, tense with ears twitching toward every sound. There had been an unusual influx of Tevene in Denerim which had the whole alienage on edge. Parents kept children inside and those that worked outside of the confines of the district's walls hurried straight home at night. The few speakeasies within had shuttered. No one who remembered The Unrest wanted to be wandering the streets drunk and in the dark, Sammen was no exception.

The caution made him feel safer and eased his da’s mind, but they depended heavily on Sammen’s earnings from performing in taverns. At first they were able to make due with what Sammen earned at the docks, but the loss of his tavern earnings was a growing stress on them. Sammen was weighing safety against affording food and shelter. The dilemma was constantly in his thoughts to the point he was sure it was wearing pathways on his soul. If the Maker ever called his sorry ass to His side, he was sure he’d look more like a city map of worries than an elf.

Arriving home, Sammen lifted the latch and gave the door a kick to open it. He still meant to borrow a planer to shave down the door, but it was on an endless list of things he needed to do and always behind making enough coin to _have_ a door. One problem at a time.

“Da! I’m home!” Sammen announced himself. Mr. Alberts was seated by the fire stirring a pot of what Sammen charitably described as ‘stew’. In truth, da’s cooking produced something akin in consistency and flavor to mud. Sammen wasn’t entirely convinced da didn’t stretch their meager food supplies by adding actual mud to his concoctions. Blessed were the nights Ayla or Rosha had stopped by with their leftovers, and twice blessed were the nights Mary had started doing it.

Da nodded in acknowledgement and waved at the shelf where they kept the dishes. Sammen got two bowls and spoons down from the shelf and gave them a cursory swipe with his sleeve before handing them over to da to ladle their meal into. The side eye da gave him while serving the meal did not go unnoticed. His old man was keeping a secret. Sammen pushed his own worries out of the way and focused in on his da. Mr. Alberts was anxious, maybe even a little scared. Whatever the secret was, it wasn’t going to be good.

“Well.” Sammen gave his da as stern of a look as was possible while shoveling the sludge into his face.

Mr. Alberts ducked his head, sheepish. He looked up at Sammen again, who was still glaring at him with a mouth full of stew. Mr. Alberts reached into his sleeve and withdrew a letter, crinkled and fuzzy around the edges. It had come a long way.

“What’s this?” Sammen asked as he took the letter. He scrutinized the seal, a sword stuck through a flaming eye. It was familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Not a noble’s signet, at least none of the ones in Ferelden. Maybe Chantry? It reminded him of the templar's flaming sword.

Sammen slid his finger along the fold, popping the wax apart and opened the paper. It was Ayla’s handwriting, he recognized the blocky, easy to read letters right away. If it was Ayla, what had his da anxious? Sammen flicked his eyes up from the paper, his da was sitting on the edge of the chair trying not to look worried. Da couldn’t have read it, so why…?

And then it hit Sammen.

It was a letter from Ayla. Not Mary. If everything was okay, Mary would have written it.

Sammen turned his now worried attention back to the letter and read. His lips moving and tongue fumbling to translate the squiggles on the page into sounds and words as he read slowly aloud.

“Dead.” Sammen fell back into his chair, his da was openly weeping. After the blight, Rosha and Ayla had been closer than family...and Mary...he had had a lot of dreams about Mary. Sammen felt the hopes he had spun of a family and a home of his own evaporating. They left a profound emptiness in the cavity of his chest that made him feel like one of those little hollow porcelain statues in a rich nob’s house. He felt like he had been smashed to pieces like one too.

Sammen sunk to his knees and laid his head in his da’s lap, sobbing. Mr. Alberts gently pet his son’s hair, making comforting clucks as tears released the pain in both their hearts.

“Well.” Sammen said after sometime, sitting up and wiping tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand, “Someone should tell Shianni.”

Mr. Alberts nodded, gripping Sammen’s hands tight and kissing the knuckles.

“I love you too, da.” Sammen leaned down and kissed his da’s cheek. He gave da’s hands a squeeze before letting go and heading for the door.

“Be back soon.” Sammen promised, giving the door a shove open with his shoulder.

Shianni’s house was nearby. Of course, most things in the alienage were nearby. Space was a luxury. A short, paranoid walk brought Sammen to her door. He knocked.

There was a susurration. Sammen sniffed in amusement, he didn’t get to use that word often, even just inside his own head. It was a good one, had a nice ring to it and a meaning that just... _fit._ He liked words like these and collected them. It was comforting when the world felt so fragile, like right now.

The door opened and Shianni appeared.

“Sammen! What are you doing here so late?” She had the tone of half accusation and half concern that all hahrens must develop.

“It’s barely sundown, hahren.” Sammen set his face into an easy grin.

“Might as well be midnight in a city crawling with Tevene, get in here.” Shianni stepped aside and ushered Sammen in like a worried hen ready to fight.

“There’s...no one in here.” Sammen said before he could stop his mouth.

“What were you expecting?” Shianni scolded, “The royal guard over for an evening chat and tea?”

She brushed past him into what served as her dining room and seated herself behind the rough wooden table in front of one of the most expensive looking mirrors Sammen had seen in his life. Shianni gestured, indicating he should take the chair across from her.

Sammen took the seat she indicated, watching his reflection in the mirror the whole time. He liked mirrors and had always wanted one of his own, it made it so much easier to get the curl on the locks that he couldn’t otherwise see juuust right. This mirror seemed different, somehow. Glowier, maybe. He thought his reflection looked shiner, newer, like he felt in good dreams.

“Well?” Shianni said, breaking into his thoughts. Sammen realized she’d been asking him a question.

“Sorry, what?” Samman refocused his attention.

“What brought you to-” Shianni started to repeat.

“I-I got a letter from Ayla.” Sammen said as he caught the original question.

“Not a _good_ letter then, or you wouldn’t be here.” Shianni shifted, bracing for bad news, “How are the Adalens?”

The question was benign. It was the sort of question one might answer on any particular day of their life with little hesitation. There were even helpfully socially provided answers such as ‘they are doing well’ or ‘haven’t you heard the latest gossip?’ It was the answer that was giving Sammen problems.

“Rosha and Mary they didn’t-” Sammen started, “They aren’t...They...I didn’t.”

He came to a full stop. Took a deep breath. And started again.

“Templars got Rosha. Mary and Ayla made it as far as Haven, but Mary...didn’t survive the Breach.” He said.

Shianni’s eyes went wide, and then her face fell.

“I told Rosha they would be safe here.” Shianni pushed her bangs back and held her temples with her palms.

“Rosha always put the community first.” Sammen reached across the table and rested a comforting hand on Shianni’s arm, “There was no way you or she could have known what was going to happen.”

“Did the letter mention how Ayla was doing?” Shianni asked.

“Have you heard the rumors about the Herald of Andraste?” Sammen asked, it seemed like the simplest way to explain what had taken Ayla several pages.

“Are you saying…?” Shianni squinted, incredulous.

“Yeah. Apparently that’s Ayla.”

Shianni blinked, staring at Sammen, puzzling over everything she’d just heard.

“Shit.” Shianni said, succinctly summing everything up as she collapsed back into her chair.

“So what are you going to do?” Shianni asked.

“Me?” Sammen’s voice squeaked with surprise.

“Yeah, you.” Shianni leaned forward again, “You and Ayla were so thick you were probably three days away from becoming either outlaws or in-laws.”

“I-” Sammen stammered, “I just found out.”

“And what was your first thought.” Shianni continued to prod.

“Ayla shouldn’t be going through this alone.” Sammen slowly worked out what he felt, what he already _knew_ , into words, “I want to go-but da…”

Shianni shook her head, “Mr. Alberts can stay with me. You take care of Ayla.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Young man, need I remind you that I am your hahren.” Shianni folded her arms against argument, “It is my _job_ to take care of everyone in this alienage, _including_ your da, and _including_ Ayla. I can’t go running off across half of Thedas after Ayla, but I _can_ send you and I _can_ take care of Mr. Alberts.

So.

What are _you_ going to _do_?”

“Go to Haven?” Sammen said.

“You don’t sound sure.” Shianni’s brow lowered. Sammen felt like she was scrutinizing him as closely as a discount fish at market close.

He wasn’t sure.

Sammen looked around the room, trying to think, trying to _feel_ what came next. Shianni’s home was larger than most in the alienage. There were a few carvings, embroideries, and small glass statues decorating the surfaces-gifts of thanks for all the little things a hahren did. They were all arranged around the big thing a hahren did, a large, old tome of cracking leather. The bloodline of an alienage was more carefully tracked and recorded than that of any noble house. A hahren kept it all. Every birth, every marriage, every mage, and every death. He realized that Rosha and Mary’s deaths would soon be recorded there too, their passing in this world forever kept in the memory of their people. It was comforting.

His eyes fell back onto the mirror. He could see himself, the back of Shianni, the reflected room. Something small and easily ignorable whispered that there was one more person there. And there was that dreamy feeling again. It helped him tune out and _focus._

What did come next?

And he knew.

“I’m going to Haven and helping Ayla keep her ass out of the fire long enough to come home.”

“I’ll be over for Mr. Alberts in the morning.” Shianni gave Sammen a smile, though sadness seemed to hang from the corners of her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a lot with this chapter! Let me know your thoughts in the comments, please and thanks♥


	19. The Line Between Thinking and Doing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammen says goodbye to his da and leaves Denerim for the journey to Haven.

Sammen had awoken long ago, but still lay curled up in his nest on the floor by the hearth listening to the soft snores of his da in the creeping grey light of morning. His eyes wandered over to the small pack Mr. Alberts had put together last night. They didn’t have much, but what they had that might be useful on the long journey to Haven was wrapped in the warmest blanket they had and tied into a bindle.

The pack was small, and physically light enough, but it’s presence had been weighing on Sammen all night. He _meant_ to bring Ayla back as fast as possible. He knew that if they put their heads together they could work out _some_ way to extract her from the whole “Herald of Andraste” debacle. Then they could come home to Denerim. Have a memorial for Rosha and Mary.

Mary.

 _Maker’s breath._ Mary.

It really hadn’t sunk in yet that she was gone. His head seemed to know it, but his heart couldn’t stop believing she was safe somewhere. That was what she was _supposed_ to be. He wasn’t sure he’d ever fully be able to accept she wasn’t coming back. And if he was honest...he didn’t really want to.

Sammen sighed deep as he played the memories of Mary through his mind again. In the quiet of the early morning, it felt like a sacred ritual that he’d only just begun.

They’d played together as children, like most of the brats in the alienage did. Roaming gangs of ankle biters were unavoidable. There had never been anything during their games of Maric and the Puppet King that warned him that the girl who wore her black-brown curls cropped and separated into eight tails like a crown of fire on her head would ever make his heart pound like a drum. Sammen had known her then, but most of his childhood memories centered around Rory, another boy in the alienage who had died of the plague brought by the Blight. The elders in the alienage still only knew about a _quarter_ of the shenanigans he and Rory had gotten up to as boys. Maybe one day he’d come clean and explain to Alarith exactly what had happened to his store of not-so-medicinal elfroot and how that goat had ended up in the rafters.

It was strange looking at those memories now, with the new eyes experience had given him. If he had known about Mary then. How important she would be. How little time he would have with her. He’d have done everything differently. They’d be one of those childhood sweetheart couples that got married as soon as they could scrap together the coin. He’d have spent more time, been more careful, to hide Mary from the Chantry. To keep the templars from taking her away and robbing him of all those years they could have spent together.

All he had now were the memories of two weeks.

Two wonderful weeks. A treasure that could never be taken from him no matter how poor he got. How much was burned. How heartless of a landlord he was evicted by. He had been on the verge of speaking to Shianni and Rosha about marriage. He felt his palms sweat and his heart quicken as he recalled his prepared speech he had rehearsed for hours, and he curled into himself and hid his head under the blankets like a child when he thought of the speech he’d readied to ask Mary. Practiced words never to be spoken, like new shoes too small for his feet, they were useless and pinched.

Sammen was shaken from his thoughts in the absence of snoring. Mr. Alberts was awake and shuffling about in his cot, managing a seated position. Sammen rose from the hearth and helped his da dress for the day. Mr. Alberts insisted on wearing his best suit, he didn’t often leave the shack as it was difficult for him to get around on his own and he moved slowly, so the walk from their home to Shianni’s was something of a special occasion. Mr. Alberts had stayed up late, polishing his black hawthorn walking canes as dark and knobbly as Mr. Albert’s own fingers, until they gleamed in the firelight.

Mr. Alberts gripped a cane in each hand and took a practice run around the shack, grinning a smile that still charmed as he made it to his fireside chair under his own power.

“Don’t wear yourself out before Shianni comes, da.” Sammen shook his head and began folding the blankets, “Wouldn’t want all that preparation to go to waste.”

Mr. Alberts responded by sticking out his tongue and blowing a raspberry at his own son before busying himself with making morning tea.

It wasn’t long thereafter that Shanni announced herself with a rap at the door. She brought along three gangly teens who had yet to grow into their ears. They were immediately set to work carrying out the furniture.

“Are you ready, Mr. Alberts?” Shianni asked.

Mr. Alberts nodded and collected himself, standing from his chair as stately and noble as a bann. Sammen rose too, and took his pack from the floor.

“Da…” Sammen started but was interrupted by a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes.

Mr. Alberts walked over to his son and threw himself into Sammen’s arms, embracing him tightly. They stood like that, heart to heart saying all the things they meant to say in silence.

“Do what is good.” Mr. Alberts whispered in a voice that sounded like the creaking of the vhenadahl branches.

Sammen looked at his da, startled. Mr. Alberts gave his son a smile that showed how proud he was of him. And Sammen began crying in earnest.

“I love you, da.” Sammen said.

Mr. Alberts kiss his son on each cheek before letting go and walking out of the shack.

“I’ll take care of him, I promise.” Shanni said.

“I know, thank you hahren.” Sammen vigorously wiped tears from his eyes.

“Have a safe journey. I’ll try and keep in touch through messenger.” Shianni shifted to the door, “Goodbye, Sammen Alberts.”

The door creaked shut as she closed it behind her and Sammen was alone. Sammen looked around the room, the shack had never had much in it in the first place, but now it was empty. It felt emptier than empty. Like...the end of a play. The moment when the last bows have been taken and the candles blown out. That sense that something had ended and the space was waiting for the next thing to begin.

Sammen took the back streets and alleyways out of Denerim. He couldn’t exactly why making a quiet exit was important, only that it was what felt called for. To sneak out of the city that had been his home for his life so far.

Denerim was behind him now and the long road to Haven lay ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for still reading even as my update schedule has become a bit irregular!
> 
> Sammen's chapter was easy to write this time around. I think the close of his story in the alienage as he begins his story with the Inquisition is sort of the perfect metaphor for how autumn always makes me feel, and it was a lot of fun writing cute/sad moments between Sammen and his da.
> 
> When next we meet, we'll be seeing what Varric has been up to in Val Royeaux. I'm pretty excited for the stuff I've got planned out for him!
> 
> Again, thank you as always for reading, and I love hearing from you guys! Before this I always wrote for myself and didn't really share, so getting feedback has been so amazing. Even when I'm slow to respond, I promise it's cause I like having your words sitting in my inbox so I can grin like an idiot every time I open it. Your support has meant so much to me on this writing journey ♥


	20. “Reading is essential for those who seek to rise above the ordinary.” – Jim Rohn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Ayla make a trip to the University of Orlais.

Varric had a growing mountain of books carefully stacked on the desk in the small library of the townhouse the Inquisition had rented. Josephine had done a decent job stocking the shelves, but she’d also done a very _political_ job of stocking the shelves. Any Orleasian visitor would be hit across the face with how very Chantry the library was. Brother Genitivi was certainly an important author, but over represented in the book selection in Varric’s opinion. And the older volumes about the historic Inquisition and its relation the Orlesian Emperor Drakon did a lot to justify the Inquisition’s standing in Orlais.

None of it was good enough for someone’s _first_ book.

He thumbed through the pile of the most promising candidates. They were all good. They were all important. But they all weren’t quite...right.

So what _was_ the right book for Ayla?

Something dramatic. Poetic. With an underdog hero.

Ah. Yes. _Of course._

_The Book of Shartan._

There was no way Josephine would have put it anywhere near her carefully curated library. It was heretical, _and_ rare.

But this was Val Royeaux. Home of the University of Orlais. Those academic types _loved_ rare books _and_ tweaking the Chantry’s nose. Their library was certain to have a copy. They had all of _his_ books, after all. Ayla would probably enjoy seeing the University too.

Varric carefully stowed the books he’d gotten out back on their shelves. After all, he was a writer, not an animal. Now all he needed was Ayla.

He had no idea where to find her, and though he was not above wandering the halls calling her name, but a more unobtrusive approach might be appreciated by everyone else trying to get actual work done. He looked in all of her usual haunts first. She wasn’t practicing archery in the courtyard, trading gossip in the kitchen, or receiving instruction with Leliana. In the end he found her in the sitting room, tucked into the window seat, feet curled under her skirts working an embroidery hoop and humming softly to herself. It reminded him of Hawke at her brews. That simple focus of creating, bringing something into this world that hadn’t been there before. Hawke had always gained a tranquility when she was brewing that brought her grounding as she made her way through the rest of her life in Kirkwall. It was the same for him and writing. 

“Hello, Varric!” Ayla looked up from her embroidery and smiled at him, “Taking a break from the library?”

“Not quite.” He shook his head, “Headed to more fertile hunting grounds. Thought you’d like to tag along.”

“I could stretch my legs.” Ayla tucked her work into a sewing basket and stood, “Where are we going?”

“The University of Orlais, if I can’t find the perfect book for you there, I’ll probably have to write it myself.”

The walk to the University was very different from the walk to the town square. Word of the Order’s abandonment of Orlais had spread, as well as Ayla facing them down and coming out victorious. People wanted a piece of that. Varric knew a crowd looking for a story, and it seemed like everyone on the street that day was looking to tell the story of the day they met the Herald of Andraste.

Ayla, for her part, was handling it beautifully. Varric saw her win more people over with a handshake and charming smile than most people could with a round of free drinks and a penchant for losing at cards. And, to Val Royeaux’s credit, they recognized him too.

“Master Tethras! I love your books!” A giddy young noble approached him.

“Just what every author loves to hear.” Varric grinned. He couldn’t help it. He was a dwarf who loved adulation.

“I have to admit, though, that I was disappointed by your most recent book.” The noble said, waving at a servant who began digging around in a pack, “The characters seemed more like flat parodies of themselves. Like you had boiled them down to their most distinctive personality trait and just lost all of the _deepness_ I’ve come to love.”

“Pardon?” Varric struggled to understand how Tale of the Champion... _a true story_ ...he might add, could have flat _real_ people.

“It was still better than half the books on the market today, though.” The noble took a book from the hands of their servant who had managed to produce it from the pack, “And it would be an honor if you would sign it? Please?”

The noble offered the book to Varric. And it was then that he realized the problem. This wasn’t one of his books.

 _Hard in Hightown: Punch Harder._ That title alone! Someone was going to be very, very sorry. He would make very, very sure of that.

“How about I do you one better. Leave it with me and I’ll give you an anointed version.” Varric smiled at his poor fooled fan.

“I...yes!” The noble was stumbling over themselves, “Yes! Thank you! _Thank_ you!”

“Just give my an address to send it to and I’ll send it back to you as soon as I’m done with it.” Varric wasn’t entirely sure this was true. He doubted very much the book would survive his first reading. But maybe he’d send them a manuscript for the _actual_ third installment of Hard in Hightown. That should make up for the destruction of property he was sure was eminent. His fingers itched to shred paper then and there in the street, but he wanted to know _exactly_ what he was dealing with and Ayla was representing the Inquisition only five feet...ten feet...twenty? Oh shit.

Cassandra was going to kill him. _Shit._

Leliana was going to kill him. _Maker’s ass._

In all likelihood, Josephine was going to ki-ill him. _Andraste protect his sorry soul._

Where could Ayla possibly have gone? He swore he only took eyes off her for a minute. Sure, Ayla was an adult who could take care of herself. She was probably fine. Wherever she was.

But he has still _lost_ the _Herald of Andraste._

Shit.

Oh-kay. Calm down, Varric. _Think._ The first step to finding someone was to look. Not panic. Panic was not helping here.

He began searching the street where they had been in an orderly grid-like fashion. As his frenzy subsided, he realized there was a pattern to the street crowds. Sparse where he was, but growing denser to the North. Being a dwarf in a city of humans had it advantages, elbowing your way through a crowd at waist height was one of them. He made his way to the center where the crowd was ringed tightly around a small woman with a mess of curls pinned to her head, a dress that was more embroidered patches than fabric, and a glowing hand. The tightness that had wound around his heart released, _Ayla._ She was crouched down, speaking with children, showing them her hand, complimenting their dolls, eliciting giggles, and generally seeming to be in her element.

“Hello, Varric!” Ayla had spied him and was standing, “I wonder what Cassandra would think about the Orleasian reaction to the Inquisition now.”

“I think the Seeker would have started threatening people with her sword half a block ago.” Varric resisted the urge to hold Ayla’s hand like a worried mother. How did he keep getting himself into these situations?

“That might, at least, get us moving faster.” Ayla surveyed the crowd, a friendly smile still fixed on her face, “How much further to the university?”

“Luckily, not far.”

Their progress was slow, but they found a pattern that kept them moving forward as they went from one devotee to another in the direction they intended to go. With anyone else, it might have been tedious. Varric loved working a crowd, and seemingly so did Ayla. The Inquisition may have began as rebel upstarts, but by the time they made it to the University gates they would be that charming rogue that everyone wanted to say they knew.

The crowd dissipated almost instantly as they crossed over into the great Chantry Courtyard of the University of Orlais. The gleaming white marble that shined bright in the sun seemingly was enough to drive back the onlookers and remind them that they had other matters to attend to that day. Varric squinted at the courtyard, the devotion to ostentatious, over the top display of wealth was blinding in direct sunlight. No wonder academics so often wore glasses. Just crossing the square was a hazard to one’s vision.

“I thought Andraste had red hair.” Ayla commented, staring at a mosaic gaudily cobbled together of precious and semi-precious stone at her feet.

“At one point, there was an Orlesian painter who wanted to curry favor with the Empire who modeled their rendition of Andraste after the then sitting Empress.” Varric said looking down, shading his eyes, “Since then, she’s always resembled the ruling family of Orlais in all related art.”

“That seems...ironic?” Ayla experimentally nudged a stone of pale golden amber that comprised Andraste’s flowing locks, “Her being a rebel against the ruling Imperium and all.”

“Don’t let the ruling class hear you say that too loud.” Varric warned with a chuckle, “Orlesians will vehemently defend their blonde-haired, blue-eyed Andraste.”

“Noted.” Ayla looked up from contemplating the mosaic, “Do you know where the library is? We should get moving before we draw another crowd.”

Their entrance was beginning to cause a stir. Students desperate for a distraction, any distraction, from their studies were peering out cracked doors and windows.

“I think I remember the way. It’s been awhile.” Varric began walking across the courtyard.

He, in fact, remembered most of the way. They only got turned around thrice in the winding halls of the university. Each time a haggard student gladly offered _sometimes_ helpful directions. In the end, their journey was a success marked by tall double doors decorated, as so many things in the university seemed to be, with scenes from the life of Andraste.

“Well, Spoon, welcome to the library.” Varric said as he dramatically opened the door.

Ayla did not react with surprise or wonder at a room stuffed to it’s very limits with the printed word. How could she? She’d never read a book and had no idea the power they could hold. The wonder. The excitement. The escape. But she did walk with reverence.

“There are so many books.” She spoke in a hushed, awed voice.

“The university’s library is one of the biggest in the world.” Varric replied, running a loving finger along the spines of books neatly placed on a nearby shelf, “The nearest rivals might only be in Tevinter.”

“How do we find the one you’re looking for?”

“Usually places like these have some kind of system.” Varric began looking in earnest at the books, “Most commonly alphabetical.”

“That’s when things are placed according to their letters, right?” Ayla was following the title of a book with her finger, carefully mouthing the letters.

“You’ve never read a book and you know alphabetical order?”

“It’s how the Proprietor taught me letters. Helping him organize the books and scrolls in Wonders of Thedas.” Ayla explained, “Then we organized the items by letters to learn how to spell. These ones are ‘F’!”

“The Proprietor?” Varric prompted while trying to extrapolate where ‘S’ would be from where they stood.

“He preferred the name, as it was who he was.” Ayla explained, “I guess I always accepted it as a child, but now I suppose it’s a bit sad. That the Proprietor didn’t have an identity outside of his role at the shop, that he identified that way so strongly he’d forgo his name for the title. What letter are we looking for?”

“‘S’. Sounds like a man passionate about his work.” Varric walked towards an area of the library he thought might be closer to the letter than where they currently stood.

“No, quite the opposite. The Proprietor was Tranquil.” Ayla followed after, “I mean, I don’t agree with the people who say the Tranquil are people who have lost their feelings and passions. They’re still there, you just have to listen quieter. It takes a lot of patience and people just don’t seem to think they have time for that.”

“Huh.” Varric wasn’t quite sure how to process this new information. He’d never really given the Tranquil much thought. Probably because their dead eyes and dispassionate way of speaking gave him the creeps. Now he was feeling guilty about it. He prided himself on knowing people, and here was an entire group he had just sort of...written off. Because they were different.

“Huh.” He said again.

“This is ‘S’, right?” Ayla said, examining a shelf, “The squiggly one?”

“That’s the one.” Varric grasped the momentary distraction from larger thoughts best saved for another time when he could give them their due.

“Well, the problem is... _smaller_ at least.” Ayla stood, looking into an alcove that housed A sizable collection of books whose titles began with ‘S’.

“This is the point where we look for reinforcements.” Varric’s eye followed the shelves up and up and up until his head tilted all the way back, “Hey, if it was easy, it probably wouldn’t be worth it.”

Varric looked around the library for assistance, and found a young elf seated at one of the study tables, barricaded in by a wall of books and scrolls, scribbling numbers and letters on a parchment like an accountant gone mad.

“Sorry to interrupt, but would you happen to know about where I could find a copy of The Book of Shartan?” Varric asked.

“I’m a student, not a servant.” The elf said without looking up.

“What are you writing?” Ayla had walked around the table and was peering of his shoulder, “I’ve never seen words like those before.”

“They’re not words, they’re _formulas_.” The elf looked up, annoyed.

“What is a formula?” Ayla replied, leaning closer to look at the paper. Varric noted the elf’s annoyance abated as he seemed to realize that Ayla’s curiosity was genuine and not patronizing.

“It’s part of math.” The elf held up the paper so Ayla could see it better, “See, this bit here is a term, and these parts show what can be done with them, and then this term over here will be equal to the sum of these terms here.”

“What happens when they’re equal?” Ayla asked. Varric was generally following the ideas around. Arithmetic on some level had always been a part of the merchant’s guild, so it was always handy to at least the gist of it.

“You find something out.” The elf said.

“Like a new number?” Ayla’s scrunched up her face, Varric wondered how much mathematics she knew, if any at all.

“Or a new idea. Mathematics can be so much more than just numbers.” The elf was getting dreamy eyed, the boy was clearly pursuing his passion, “It is the language of nature. Mathematics can explain how a flower blooms, or a snail’s shell grows, it can even write poems of how the stars move in the sky.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone compare to mathematics to poetry before.” Varric chuckled, it was like hearing himself go on about stories. Same passion, different subject.

“But it is!” The elf exclaimed, “There’s the rather eloquent sequence that just spirals and divides itself, growing ever steadily larger and nature uses it all the time from how pines make their cones to how water eddies around a rock. Nothing else can describe these swirls quite so precisely. And if you learn how to read them, to write them, to study them than you can save it for as long as you have paper, or send a precise accounting thousands of miles away where the mathematical scholar never saw the original and they can recreate it in perfect detail.”

“It sounds as bit magical.” Ayla said with whimsy, she was clearly taken in by this elf’s zeal for all things numbers.

“Practically,” The elf nodded, “But one does not need to inherit the talent. Although I’m sure if the Chantry had ever caught on to how powerful mathematics is, it would have been just as closely regulated.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you.” Varric said.

“Why? What can the Chantry do now?” The elf laughed, “Especially when I have the ear of Andraste’s Herald?”

“Who? Me?” Varric said, “I’m flattered, but I heard the Herald is 10 foot tall with razor teeth and a mighty sword.”

“Funny.” The elf said in a way that meant they did not think it was funny at all, “Because I have it on good authority it is a human girl with a glowing hand.”

“Ah, yes.” Ayla said, clenching the hand that bore the mark and hiding the action with a laugh, “That is a bit of a give away, isn’t it?”

“At least until the fashionable figure out how to recreate it. Then I expect there shall be Heralds all through Val Royeaux.” The elf gave a wry smile.

“That will be a thing to see.” Ayla’s eyes sparkled, as she offered the elf her hand, “My name is Ayla, formerly of the Denerim alienage. My friends call me Spoon.”

“Ah. Elf-blooded. On account of the ears.” The elf took her hand and shook it. Varric chaffed a bit at how quickly the elf had picked up on 'Spoon', made him feel like he was slipping. “Lennan.”

“Varric Tethras. Sorry, should have started with the introductions.” Varric offered his name.

“Well Master Tethras, Ayla.” Lennan said, “Since you’ve interrupted my studies anyways, I _am_ curious what kind of book an acclaimed author and a living religious figure want with The Book of Shartan.”

“Is that the book? The one you picked?” Ayla looked up at Varric.

“Apostate’s out of the tower now.” Varric chuckled, “Yes. Spoon here’s never read a book before. I thought Shartan’s writings direct from the man himself would be an excellent first choice for her."

“Interesting. Why not the Cantacle of Shartan? It was recently re-discovered.” Lennan said.

“That’s more poetry and song. And it can take lifetimes to really understand some of the concepts of components of The Chant.” Varric shook his head, “I wanted something a little easier to grasp, but still relevant given Spoon’s background.”

“So you are of the mind the the Cantacles should be returned to canon?” Lennan asked. This was a test, Varric could feel it.

“Yes.” Ayla answered without hesitation.

“Not the most politically sensitive answer.” Lennan shook his head, but was smiling, “I’d find a way to state it more obliquely  if you want to make your way through the Orlesian nobility and keep them at your side.”

Lennan stood and waved, indicating they should follow him.

“And you will need the nobility behind you. Never doubt that, no matter how politely they pick away at you.” Lennan continued as he lead them back to the ‘S’ alcove, “You need to be in the room if you’re going to prove them wrong.”

“You’ve got the voice of experience.” Varric observed.

“I didn’t become the first elf to study at the University of Orlais by accident.” Lennan picked a book off a shelf and handed it to Ayla, “I gained the backing of the Empress through the Comtess Helene, and I don’t remain here even though the Empress does not have...the command, shall we say, that she once did.”

“I heard about the massacre at Halamshiral.” Ayla spoke softly as she gently took the book, “You have no worries for your safety here?”

“Of course I do.” Lennan replied, “But if I fail now and leave with my tail between my legs, it will be a long time before there is ever a second elf admitted to the University. I stand here not just for myself.”

“I--know how that feels.” Ayla’s gaze was fixed somewhere further away than the book she was looking at. Varric could swear he saw her mark glimmer.

“When you’re the only elf, you are not just yourself, but all elves.” Lennan said, staring at whatever Ayla was.

There was so much shit in the world. It was never just a simple qunari invasion or hole in the sky. Varric always felt he saw the world as it is, a fact he took no small amount of pride in. But these two kids were dreamers, looking for a world that could be. It was dangerous, but at the same time thrilling. He wanted to see them succeed, it would do his bitter old heart good.

“What-” Ayla started, coming back from wherever she had been, “What would you do if you were me?”

“What do you mean?” Lennan returned to the present a half step behind.

“The Chantry is falling apart, the templars _and_ mages have rebelled, and eyes are beginning to turn to the Inquisition.” Ayla opened her palm flat, the glowing mark coloring the alcove with it’s green light, “The Bann of Denerim is an elf. The Vhenadahl have royal protection. The Canticle of Shartan has been rediscovered.”

“There is an elf in the University of Orlais.” Alya looked at Lennan meaningfully, “I want...I want to see what is good kept safe, allowed to flourish and grow. I want to see the world walk away from the bad.”

Lennan quietly contemplated for a moment.

“Then do not hide who you are.” Lennan answered, “Let everyone know you’re elf-blood. Declare it. Write it. Make it common knowledge exactly _who_ it is saving the world. They might try to bury it someday, but like the Canticle of Shartan...the truth will out.”

“You’ve got some pretty big dreams. I hope you live long enough to see them.” Varric said, trying to cover a sense of growing... _largeness_ with what was, quite frankly, not his best joke, “Still not too late to head for the hills.”

“I don’t think I want to anymore.” Ayla said, “But I give you my permission to drag me off there if you ever think we’re in over our heads.”

“Spoon, you were over your head since you dropped out of the Fade.” Varric laughed, “And I’ve been under so long I've forgotten what it feels like to _not_ be over my head.”

“Lennan, thank you.” Ayla said, “For the book--and everything else.”

“I’m glad I happened to be in the library.” Lennan replied.

“I-can I write to you?” Ayla asked, “For advice. There are many skilled people within the Inquisition, but they’re all...humans.”

“I would be honored.” Lennan said, adding in a hushed voice, “May I also suggest visiting the alienage while you are in Val Royeaux? Hahren Rashida would be eager to meet you..and…”

Lennan stopped and looked warily at Varric.

“There’s a few other books I wanted to see if I could find while I was here.” Varric said, taking the cue and he wandered away from whatever conspiracy was forming between those two. There were still some books on lyrium he wanted to read, although he doubted they would be anymore illuminating on the red stuff than what he’d already found. Which was to say, not useful at all. But you never know when a looseleaf note tucked in the pages or a one line footnote would lead to a breakthrough.

It really never was as simple as just a hole in the sky.

He didn’t yet know what role red lyrium played in all this, but the coincidence was too good to actually be one. And even if it did prove to be, there was still the problem of the templars taking it, as if they weren’t already dangerous enough on the regular stuff. Could the red lyrium have played a role in making the Breach? Was the explosion on purpose? It’d be a damn convenient accident for someone. Taking out the Divine and anyone from the mage or templar side important enough to negotiate left the field clear for someone to make a move.

But who?

Maker. He hoped he was just being paranoid.

He managed to find _Confessions of a Lyrium Addict_. Tangential to his research, but maybe it’d have something. He wouldn’t know until he read it.

“Varric?” Ayla seemed to have finished her conversation, “I am ready when you are.”

“I think I’m ready.” Varric scratched his chin, “I’m thinking we should hire a carriage to get back. If we want to make it in time for dinner, that is.”

“The best part of coming here has been Orlesian cooking every night for dinner.” Ayla rubbed her stomach in anticipation, “Although it does make me feel a bit bad for those we left behind in Haven.”

It was a quick matter to send a runner for a carriage to carry them back to the townhouse. Varric watched Ayla staring out the window, one hand to her lips while the other cradled the book. It didn’t seem like there would be a better time to ask her something he’d been wondering about since the Crossroads.

“What are your feelings on mages?”

“Pardon?” Ayla’s attention snapped to him, confusion raising her eyebrows.

“At the Crossroads.” Varric clarified, “I noticed you didn’t want to see a healer. I thought it might be because magic made you nervous.”

“My sister and Solas are both mages.” Ayla was still quizzical.

“That doesn’t always mean anything in my experience. Sometimes fear trumps family, and anger trumps fear.”

“I don’t have a problem with magic in general.” Ayla shook her head, “Some mages on an individual level though…”

“So why were you so resistant to seeing a healer?”

“Ah.”

Varric raised a brow and waited for her to continue.

She was silent as the sounds of the city flowed into the carriage.

“When the blight came to Ferelden,” She began, detached from her voice, “Refugees came to Denerim and brought with them a disease caused by the blight. It hit the alienage the hardest. Loghain, who had declared himself regent at the time, sent us Tevinter Magisters whom we were told were there as healers to stop the plague.”

There was a long pause, and Ayla sighed.

“They were slavers. They took the skilled and beautiful and left the rest to die.” She bite her lip, “They took my da.”

“Shit.”

“Most of us have an aversion to healers now.” Ayla looked him in the eye, “I know it’s irrational. Not every healer is a slaver in disguise. But…”

“Yeah.” Varric reached out and squeezed her shoulder, “I get it now. You don’t have to explain.”

“I suppose I should probably work on that.” Ayla gave a humorless laugh, “I don’t expect there’s much longevity in being the Herald of Andraste otherwise.”

“That’s...probably true.” Varric laughed.

The carriage rolled into the courtyard of the townhouse and they disembarked.

“You good to start reading that book on your own?” Varric asked as they walked into the foyer.

“I think so. It’s just like...a really long letter, right?” Ayla flipped through the first few pages, critically eyeing the words.

“That’s one way to look at it.” Varric admitted, “I’ll be here if you need any help.”

“I was thinking I’d like to visit the alienage.” Ayla shut her book and pressed her lips into a thin line, “I might have to convince Leliana. She probably already knows about earlier today.”

“Good luck, Spoon.” He waved as she disappeared up the stairs in the direction of Leliana’s study and set himself on the task of finding a nice, cozy corner. He wanted to be comfortable while he read another author eviscerating his characters and doing a hack job at it. Proximity to a fireplace might be nice too.  _Punch Harder_ his hairy dwarven ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Book of Shartan is the book that Hawke can gift Fenris in DA2 to trigger the cut scene where you learn Fenris can't read. I liked the sort of poetic-ness of it being Ayla's first book. As far as I can tell The Book of Shartan is distinct from the Canticle of Shartan. I would imagine that the rising debate around the Canticle during the Inquisition era wouldn't also cause rising interest in The Book of Shartan.
> 
> I, personally, couldn't get over Patrick Weeke's description of every single available surface in Orlais being covered in precious and semi-precious stones like he just bought a geology field guide...including, at one point, Celene's flip-flopping dress. I cannot 1) get over how ugly that would actually be I mean...holy crap, the court of King Louis XIV showed more restraint and THEY built VERSAILLES and 2) get irrationally upset because books, and particularly books written by men (George R R Martin is guilty of this too), tend to use gemstones for the go-to display of opulent wealth which completely ignores the fiber arts, which is in so many ways sexist because it would have been a woman's job to weave and sew the fine fabrics into the beautiful clothing and lace that the fabulously wealthy wore. Do you see the rich wearing a thousand gemstones sewn to their clothing like some sort of medieval bedazzling? NO! It is lace and brocade and silk and dye and fur and velvet. Like. If you're only idea of how to make something sound expensive is by putting rocks on it...just...just go to an art museum for an afternoon. Look at some portrait paintings. Look had how many rocks people in the pre-dry cleaning era didn't wear. Anyways...having Varric gently rib this is my somewhat less ranty response.
> 
> Anyone else notice how the in-game depictions of Andraste in DA:I look exactly like Empress Celene on the cover of Masked Empire? I could also totally swear she was said to have red hair in DA:O. But using your patron's likeness to depict religious figures is a long standing tradition in European art.
> 
> And again, I thought it was strange for a university to have so much religious art. I mean, some, sure, but like usually there's some art depicting respected historic intellectuals giving idyllic lectures to their eager students. And, again, I used Varric as a voice for my thoughts.
> 
> So like, for describing the library I researched library science and we didn't seem to have a much better method for the organization of books than alphabetical until the 1800s. The 1800s. Can you even imagine trying to FIND anything in the legendary library of Alexandria when they best they had was 'alphabetical order'?! Thank your local librarian today. Possibly with cookies.
> 
> I really love what math is. Can you tell? Lennan is mentioned once in the opening pages of Masked Empire. I really, really wanted to see them again.
> 
> The fact that Orlesian nobility doesn't immediately start wearing jewelry made of enchanted emeralds that rested in their palms is really just...underestimating Orlesians.
> 
> There is no named hahren for the alienage in Val Royeaux. You'd think hahrens might have come up in Masked Empire, what with all the alienage rebellions and what not, but no. Not a one. I went with Rashida. It means 'Rightly Guided', which seemed fitting for a hahren.


End file.
